r\

University of California • Berkeley

L O D O R E.

VOL. I.

A?

y£6^

L O D O R E.

m Tin:

AUTHOR OF "FRANKENSTEIN.'

In the turmoil of onr lives,
M> ii are like politic states, or troubled seas,
Tossed up and down with several storms and tempi its,
Change and variety of wrecks and fortune- ;
Till, labouring to the havens of our homes,
We struggle for the calm that crown? our ends.

Ford.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

NOT,. I.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

(SUCCESSOR TO HENRY 001 Bl IN.)

1835.

• . •

LONDON:
JbOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.

L O D O R E.

CHAPTER I.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear.

POPE.

In the flattest and least agreeable part of the
county of Essex, about five miles from the s< a,
is situated a village or small town, which ma)
be known in these pages by the name of Long-
field. Longfield is distant eight miles from any
market town, but the simple inhabitants, limit-
ing their desires to their means of satisfying
them, are scarcely aware of the kind of desert
in which they are placed. Although only fifty

VOL. I. B

3700

2 ' LODORE.

miles from London, few among them have ever
seen the metropolis. Some claim that distinc-
tion from having visited cousins in Lothbury
and viewed the lions in the tower. There is a
mansion belonging to a wealthy nobleman with-
in four miles, never inhabited, except whe*n a
parliamentary election is going forward. No
one of any pretension to consequence resided in
this secluded nook, except the honourable Mrs.
Elizabeth Fitzhenry ; she ought to have been
the shining star of the place, and she was only
its better angel. Benevolent, gentle, and unas-
suming, this fair sprig of nobility had lived
from you tli to age in the abode of her fore-
fathers, making a part of this busy world, only
through the kindliness of her disposition, and
her constant affection for one who was far away.
The mansion of the Fitzhenry family, which
looked upon the village green, was wholly in-
commensurate to our humblest ideas of what
belongs to nobility ; yet it stood in soli-
tary splendour, the Great House of Longfield.

LODORK. 3

From time immemorial, its possessors had been
the magnates of the village; half of it belonged
to them, and the whole voted according to their
wishes. Cut off from the rest of the world,
they claimed here a consideration and a defe-
rence, which, with the moderate income of fif-
teen hundred a-year, they would have vainly
sought elsewhere.

There was a family tradition, that a Fitz-
henry had satin parliament; but the time ar-
rived, when they were to rise to greater dis-
tinction. The father of the lady, whose name
has been already introduced, enjoyed all the
privileges attendant on being an only child.
Extraordinary efforts were made for his edu-
cation. He was placed with a clergyman near
Harwich, and imbibed in that neighbourhood
so passionate a love for the sea, that, though
tardily and with regret, his parents at last per-
mitted him to pursue a naval career. He b -
came a brave, a clever, and a lucky officer.
In a contested election, his father was the means

b 2

4 LODORK.

of insuring the success of the government candi-
date, and the promotion of his son followed.
Those were the glorious days of the English
navy, towards the close of the American war ;
and when that war terminated, and the ad-
miral, now advanced considerably beyond
middle life, returned to the Sabine farm, of
which he had, by course of descent, become pro-
prietor, he returned adorned with the rank of a
peer of the realm, and witli sufficient wealth to.
support respectablv the dignity of the baronial
title.

Yet an obscure fate pursued the house of
Fit/henry, even in its ennobled condition. The
new lord was proud of his elevation, as a merited
reward ; but next to the deck of Iris ship, he
loved the tranquil precincts of his paternal man-
sion, and here he spent his latter days in peace.
Midway in life, he had married the daughter of
the rector of Longfield. Various fates had at-
tended the offspring of this union ; several died,
and at the time of his being created a peer, Lord

LODolll.. 5

Lodore found himself a widower, with two chil-
dren. Elizabeth, who had been born twelve
years before, and Henry, whose recent birth
had cost the life of his hapless and lamented
mother.

But those days were long since passed
away ; and the first Lord Lodore, with most of
his generation, was gathered to his ancestor^
To the new-sprung race that filled up the va-
cant ranks, his daughter Elizabeth appeared
a somewhat ancient but most amiable maiden,
whose gentle melancholy was not (according
to innumerable precedents in the traditions
regarding unmarried ladies) attributed to an
ill-fated attachment, but to the disasters that
had visited her house, and still clouded the for-
tunes of her family. What these misfortunes
originated from, or even in what they consisted,
was not exactly known ; especially at Longfield,
whose inhabitants were no adepts in the gossip
of the metropolis. It was believed that Mrs.
Elizabeth's brother still lived ; that some very
strange circumstances had attended his career in

; .

6 LODORE.

life, was known ; but conjecture fell lame when
it tried to proceed beyond these simple facts: it
was whispered, as a wonder and a secret, that
though Lord Lodore was far away, no one
knew where, his lady (as the Morning Post
testified in its lists of fashionable arrivals and
fashionable parties) was a frequent visitor
to London. Once or twice the bolder gos-
sips, male or female, had resolved to sound
(as they called it) Mrs. Elizabeth on the sub-
ject. But the fair spinster, though innoffensive
to a proverb, and gentle beyond the wont of her
gentle sex, was yet gifted witli a certain dignity
of manner, and a quiet reserve, that checked
these good people at their very outset.

Henry Fitzhenry was spoken of by a few of
the last generation, as having been a fine, bold,
handsome boy — generous, proud, and daring ; he
was remembered, when as a youth he departed
for the continent, as riding fearlessly the best
hunter in the field, and attracting the admiration
of the village maidens at church by his tall ele-
gant figure and dark eyes ; or, when he chanced

LODORE. 7

to accost them, by a nameless fascination of
manner, joined to a voice whose thrilling silwr
tones stirred the listener's heart unaware. He

•

left them like a dream, nor appeared again till
after his father's death, when he paid his sister
a brief visit. There was then something singu-
larly grave and abstracted about him. Wh< n
he rode, it was not among the hunters, though it
was soft February weather, but in the solitary
lanes, or with lightning speed over the moors.
when the sun was setting and shadows gathered
round the landscape.

Again, some years after, he had appeared amoi
them. He was then married, and Lady Lodore
accompanied him. They stayed but three daj
There was something of fiction in the way in
which the appearance of the lady was recorded.
An angel bright with celestial hues, breathing
heaven, and spreading a halo of calm and light
around, as it winged swift way amidst the
dusky children of earth: such ideas seemed
to appertain to the beautiful apparition, remem-

8 LODORE.

bered as Lord Lodore's wife. She was so young,
that time played with her as a favourite child ;
so eth trial in look, that the language of
flowers could alone express the delicate fair-
ness of her skin, or the tints that sat upon
her cheek : so light in motion, and so graceful.
To talk of eye or lip, of height or form, or even
of the colour of her hair, the villagers could
not, for they had been dazzled by an assem-
blage of charms before undreamt of by them.
Her voice won adoration, and her smile was as
the sudden withdrawing of a curtain displaying
paradise upon earth. Her lord's tall, manly
lioure, was recollected but as a back-ground — a
fitting one — and that was all they would allow to
him — for this resplendent image. Nor was it
remembered that any excessive attachment was
exhibited between them. She had appeared
indeed but as a vision — a creature from an-
other sphere, hastily gazing on an unknown
world, and lost before they could mark more
than that void came again, and she was gone.

LODORE. 9

Since that time, Lord Lodore had been lost
to Longfield. Some few months after Mrs. Eli-
zabeth visited London on occasion of a chris-
tening, and then after a long interval, it \v;i->
observed, that she never mentioned her bro-
ther, and that the name of his wife acted as a
spell, to bring an expression of pain over her
sedate features. Much talk circulated, and
many blundering rumours went their course
through the village, and then faded like smoke
in the clear air. Some mystery there was —
Lodore was gone — his place vacant: he lived;
yet his name, like those of the dead, haunted
only the memories of men, and was allied to no
act or circumstance of present existence. He
was forgotten, and the inhabitants of Longfield,
returning to their obscurity, proceeded in their
daily course, almost as happy as if they had had
their lord among them, to vary the incidents of
their quiet existence with the proceedings of the
" Great House."

Yet his sister remembered him. In her heart

b 5

10 LODORE.

his image was traced indelibly — limned in the
colours of life. His form visited her dreams,
and was the unseen, yet not mute, companion of
her solitary musings. Years stole on, casting
their clouding shadows on her cheek, and steal-
ing the colour from her hair, but Henry, but
Lodore, was before her in bright youth — her
brother — her pride— her hope. To muse on
the possibility of his return, to read the few
letters that reached her from him, till their
brief sentences seemed to imply volumes of
meaning, was the employment that made winter
nights short, summer days swift in their pro-
gress. This dreamy kind of existence, added
to the old-fashioned habits which a recluse who
lives in a state of singleness is sure to acquire,
. made her singularly unlike the rest of the world
— causing her to be a child in its ways, and in-
expert to detect the craftiness of others.

Lodore, in exile and obscurity, was in her
eyes, the first of human beings ; she looked for-
ward to the hour, when he would blaze upon

LODORE. 11

the world with renewed effulgence, as to a religi-
ous promise. How well did she remember, how
in grace of person, how in expression of coun-
tenance, and dignity of manner, he transcended
all those whom she saw during her visit to Lon-
don, on occasion of the memorable christening :
that from year to year this return was deferred,
did not tire her patience, nor diminish her regrets.
He never grew old to her — never lost the lustre
of early manhood ; and when the boyish caprice
which kept him afar was sobered, so she framed
her thoughts, by the wisdom of time, he would
return again to bless her and to adorn the
world. The lapse of twelve years did not
change this notion, nor the fact that, if she had
cast up an easy sum in arithmetic, the parish
register would have testified, her brother had
now reached the mature age of fifty.

12 LODORE.

CHAPTER II.

Settled in some secret nest,
In calm leisure let me rest ;
And far off the public stage,
Pass aAvay my silent age.

Seneca. — Marvell's Trans.

Twelve years previous to the opening of this
tale, an English gentleman, advanced to middle
age, accompanied by an infant daughter, and
her attendant, arrived at a settlement in the
district of the Illinois in North America. It
was at the time when this part of the country
first began to be cleared, and a new comer,
with some show of property, was considered
a welcome acquisition. Still the settlement
was too young, and the people were too busy
in securing; for themselves the necessaries of
life, for much attention to be paid to any thing

LODORE. 13

but the " overt acts" of the stranger — the num-
ber of acres which he bought, which were few,
the extent of his clearings, and the number
of workmen that he employed, both of which
were, proportionately to his possession in
land, on a far larger scale than that of any of
his fellow colonists. Like magic, a commo-
dious house was raised on a small height that
embanked the swift river — every vestige of forest
disappeared from its immediate vicinity, re-
placed by agricultural cultivation, and a garden
bloomed in the wilderness. His labourers were
many, and golden harvests shone in his Gelds,
while the dark forest, or unfilled plain, seemed
yet to set at defiance the efforts of his fellow
settlers; and at the same time comforts of so
civilized a description, that the Americans
termed them luxuries, appeared in the abode
and reigned in the domestic arrangements of
the Englishman, although to his eye every
thing was regulated by the strictest regard to
republican plainness and simplicity.

He did not mingle much in the affairs of the

14 LODORK.

colony, yet his advice was always to be com-
manded, and his assistance was readily afforded.
He superintended the operations carried on on
his own land ; and it was observed that they
differed often both from American and English
modes of agriculture. When questioned, he
detailed practices in Poland and Hungary, and
gave his reasons why he thought them appli-
cable to the soil in question. Many of these
experiments of course failed ; others were emi-
nentlv successful. He did not shun labour of
any sort. He joined the hunting parties, and
made one on expeditions that went out to ex-
plore the neighbouring wilds, and the haunts
of the native Indians. He gave money for the
carrying on any necessary public work, and
came forward willingly when called upon for any
useful purpose. In any time of difficulty or
sorrow — on the overflowing of the stream, or
the failure of a crop, he was earnest in his en-
deavours to aid and to console. But with all
this, there was an insurmountable barrier be-
tween him and the other inhabitants of the

LODORK. 15

colony. He never made one at their feasts,
nor mingled in the familiar communications of
daily life; his dwelling, situated at the distance
of a full mile from the village, removed him
from out of the very hearing of their festivities
and assemblies. He might labour in common
with others, but his pleasures were all solitary,
and he preserved the utmost independence as
far as regarded the sacred privacy of his abode,
and the silence he kept in all concerns regarding
himself alone.

At first the settlement had to struggle with
all the difficulties attendant on colonization. It
grew rapidly, however, and bid fair to become a
busy and large town, when it met with a sudden
check. A new spot was discovered, a few mil.
distant, possessing peculiar advantages for com-
mercial purposes. An active, enterprising man
engaged himself in the task of establishing a
town there on a larger scale and with greater
pretensions. He succeeded, and its predecessor
sunk at once into insignificance. It was matter

1G LODORK.

of conjecture among them whether Mr. Fitz-
henry (so was named the English stranger)
would remove to the vicinity of the more con-
siderable town, but no such idea seemed to
have occurred to him. Probably he rejoiced
in an accident that tended to render his abode
so entirely secluded. At first the former town
rapidly declined, and many a log hut fell to
ruin ; but at last, having sunk into the appear-
ance and name of a village, it continued to
exist, bearing few marks of that busy enter-
prising stir which usually characterizes a new
settlement in America. The ambitious and
scheming had deserted it — it was left to those
who courted tranquillity, and desired the ne-
cessaries of life without the hope of great future
gain. It acquired an almost old-fashioned ap-
pearance. The houses began to look weather-
worn, and none with fresh faces sprung up to
shame them. Extensive clearings, suddenly
checked, gave entrance to the forests, without
the appendages of a manufacture or a farm.

LODOIIE.

17

The sound of the axe was seldom heard, and
primeval quiet again took possession of the
wild. Meanwhile Mr. Fitzhenry continued to
adorn his dwelling with imported conveniences,
the result of European art, and to spend much
time and labour in making his surrounding land
assume somewhat of the appearance of pleasure*
ground.

lie lived in peace and solitude, and seemed
to enjoy the unchanging tenor of his life. It
had not always been so. During the first three
or four years of his arrival in America, he had
evidently been unquiet in his mind, and dissa-
tisfied with the scene around him. He gave
directions to his workmen, but did not overlook
their execution. He took great pains to secure
a horse, whose fiery spirit and beautiful form
might satisfy a fastidious connoisseur. Having
with much trouble and expense got several ani-
mals of English breed together, he was per-
petually seen mounted and forcing his way
amid the forest land, or galloping over the

LODO K E.

unincumbered country. Sadness sat on his
brow, and dwelt in eyes, whose dark large orbs
were peculiarly expressive of tenderness and
melancholy,

.*

Pietosi a rignardare, a mover parchi.'

( )ften, when in conversation on uninteresting
topics, some keen sensation would pierce his
heart, his voice faltered, and an expression
of unspeakable wretchedness was imprinted
on his countenance, mastered after a momen-
tary struggle, yet astounding to the person
he might be addressing. Generally on such
occasions he would seize an immediate oppor-
tunity to break away and to remain alone.
He had been seen, believing himself unseen,
making passionate gestures, and heard uttering
some wild exclamations. Once or twice he had
wandered away into the woods, and not re-
turned for several days, to the exceeding terror
of his little household. He evidently sought
loneliness, there to combat unobserved with the

LODOIt E.

19

fierce enemy that dwelt within his breast. On
such occasions, when intruded upon and dis-
turbed, he was irritated to fury. His resent-
ment was expressed in terms ill-adapted to

republican equality — and no one could doubt
that in his own country he had filled a hiffh
station in society, and been educated in habits
of command, so that he involuntarily looked upon
himself as of a distinct and superior race to the
human beings that each day crossed his path.
In general, however, this was only shown by a
certain loftiness of demeanour and cold abstrac-
tion, which might annoy, but could not be re-
sented. Any ebullition of temper he was not
baekward to atone for by apology, and to com-
pensate by gifts.

There was no tinge of misanthropy in Fitz-
henry1s disposition. Even while he shrunk from
familiar communication with the rude and unlet-
tered, he took an interest in their welfare. His
benevolence was active, his compassion readily
afforded. It was quickness of feeling, and not

20 LODORE.

apathy, that made him shy and retired. Sensi-
bility checked and crushed, an ardent thirst for
sympathy which could not be allayed in the
wildernesses of America, begot a certain appear-
ance of coldness, altogether deceptive. He
concealed his sufferings — he abhorred that they
should be pryed into; but this reserve was not
natural to him, and it added to the misery
which his state of banishment occasioned.

"Quiet to quick bosoms is a hell."

And so was it with him. His passions were
powerful, and had been ungoverned. He
writhed beneath the dominion of sameness ; and
tranquillity, allied to loneliness, possessed no
charms. He groaned beneath the chains that
fettered him to the spot, where he was withering
in inaction. They caused unutterable throes
and paroxysms of despair. Ennui, the daemon,
waited at the threshold of his noiseless refuge,
and drove away the stirring hopes and enliven-
ing expectations, which form the better part of

LODORE. 21

life. Sensibility in such a situation is a curse :
men become " cannibals of their own hearts ;v
remorse, regret, and restless impatience usurp
the place of more wholesome feeling : every
thing seems better than that which is ; and
solitude becomes a sort of tangible enemy, the
more dangerous, because it dwells within the
citadel itself. Borne down by such emotions,
Fitzhenry was often about to yield to the yearn-
ings of his soul, and to fly from repose into ac-
tion, however accompanied by strife and wretch-
edness; to leave America, to return to Europe,
and to face at once all the evils which he
had journeyed so far to escape. He did not —
lie remained. His motives for flight returned
on him with full power after any such parox-
ysm, and held him back, lie despised himself
for his hesitation. He had made his choice,
and would abide by it. He was not so devoid
of manliness as to be destitute of fortitude, oi
so dependent a wretch as not to have rcsoun
in himself. lie would cultivate these, and ob-

22 LODORE.

tain that peace which it had been his boast that
he should experience.

It came at last. Time and custom accom-
plished their task, and he became reconciled to
his present mode of existence. He grew to love
his home in the wilderness. It was all his own
creation, and the pains and thought he con-
tinued to bestow upon it, rendered it doubly
his. The murmur of the neighbouring river
became the voice of a friend ; it welcomed him
on his return from any expedition ; and he
hailed the first echo of it that struck upon his
ear from afar, with a thrill of joy.

Peace descended upon his soul. He became
enamoured of the independence of solitude, and
the sublime operations of surrounding nature.
All further attempts at cultivation having ceased
in his neighbourhood, from year to year nothing
changed, except at the bidding of the months,
in obedience to the varying seasons ; — nothing
changed, except that the moss grew thicker and
greener upon the logs that supported his roof,

LODORI.. 23

that the plants lie cultivated increased in
strength and beauty, and that the fruit-trees
yielded their sweet produce in greater abundance.
The improvements he had set on foot displayed
in their progress the taste and ingenuity of
their projector; and as the landscape became
more familiar, so did a thousand association-
twine themselves with its varied appearances,
till the forests and glades became as friends and
companions.

As he learnt to be contented with his lot, the
inequalities of humour, and singularities of
conduct, which had at first attended him, died
away. He had grown familiar with the persons
of his fellow-colonists, and their various for-
tunes interested him. Though he could find no
friend, tempered like him, like him nursed in
the delicacies and fastidiousness of the societies
of the old world; — though he, a china vase,
dreaded too near a collision with the brazen
ones around; yet, though he could not give his
confidence, or unburthen the treasure of hi-

24 LODORE.

soul, he could approve of, and even feel affec-
tion for several among them. Personal courage,
honesty, and frankness, were to be found among
the men ; simplicity and kindness among the
women. He saw instances of love and devotion
in members of families, that made him sigh to
be one of them ; and the strong sense and
shrewd observations of many of the elder settlers
exercised his understanding. They opened, by
their reasonings and conversation, a new source
of amusement, and presented him with another
opiate for his too busy memory.

Fitzhenrv bad been a patron of the fine
arts; and thus he had loved books, poetry, and
the elegant philosophy of the ancients. Hut he
had not been a student. His mind was now in
a fit state to find solace in reading, and excite-
ment in the pursuit of knowledge. At first he
sent for a few books, such as he wished imme-
diately to consult, from New York, and made
slight additions to the small library of classical
literature he had originally brought with him

LODORE. 25

on his emigration. But when once the desire to
instruct himself was fully aroused in his mind,
he became aware how slight and inadequate his
present library was, even for the use of one
man. Now each quarter brought chests of a
commodity he began to deem the most precious
upon earth. Beings with human forms and
human feelings he had around him ; but, as if
made of coarser, half-kneaded clay, they wanted
the divine spark of mind and the polish of tas;
He had pined for these, and now they were
presented to him. Books became his friends:
they, when rightly questioned, could answer
to his thoughts. Plato could elevate, Epictetus
calm, his soul. He could revel with Ovid in
the imagery presented by a graceful, though
voluptuous imagination ; and hang enchanted
over the majesty and elegance of Virgil. Homer
was as a dear and revered friend — Horace a
pleasant companion. English, Italian, German,
and French, all yielded their stores in turn ;
and the abstruse sciences were often a relax-
vol. i. c

26 LODORE.

ation to a mind, whose chief bane was its dwel-
ling too entirely upon one idea. He made a
study, also, of the things peculiarly befitting
his present situation; and he rose in the esti-
mation of those around, as they became aware
of his talents and his knowledge.

Study and occupation restored to his heart
self-corn placency, which is an ingredient so ne-
cessary to the composition of human happiness.
He felt himself to be useful, and knew himself
to be honoured. He no longer asked himself,
u Why do I live?" or looked on the dark,
rapid waves, and longed for the repose that was
in their gift The blood flowed equably in his
veins; a healthy temperance regulated his hopes
and wishes. He could again bless God for the
boon of existence, and look forward to future
years, if not with eager anticipation, yet with a
calm reliance upon the power of good, wholly
remote from despair.

LODORE. 27

CHAPTER III.

Miranda. — Alack ! what trouble
Was I then to you !

Prospero. — O, a cherubim
Thou wast, that did preserve me !

Tin: Tlmpest.

Such was the Englishman who had taken refuge
in the furthest wilds of an almost untenanted
portion of the globe. Like a Corinthian column,
left single amidst the ruder forms of the forest
oaks, standing in alien beauty, a type of civili-
zation and the arts, among the rougher, though
perhaps not less valuable, growth of Nature's
own. Refined to fastidiousness, sensitive to
morbidity, the stranger was respected without

c 2

28 LODORE.

being understood, and loved though the intimate
of none.

Many circumstances have been mentioned as
tending to reconcile Fitzhenry to his lot ; and
yet one has been omitted, chiefest of all; — the
growth and development of his child was an
inexhaustible source of delight and occupation.
She was scarcely three years old when her parent
first came to the Illinois. She was then a play-
thing and an object of solicitude to him, and
nothing more. Much as her father loved her,
he had net then learned to discover the germ of
the soul just nascent in her infant form ; nor to
watch the formation, gradual to impercepti-
bility, of her childish ideas. He would watch
over her as she slept, and gaze on her as she
sported in the garden, with ardent and unquiet
fondness; and, from time to time, instil some
portion of knowledge into her opening mind :
but this was all done by snatches, and at inter-
vals. His affection for her was the passion of
his soul ; but her society was not an occupation

LODORE. 29

for his thoughts. He would have knelt to ki-
ller footsteps as she bounded across the grass,
and tears glistened in his eyes as she embraced
his knees on his return from any excursion ;
but her prattle often weaned him, and her verj
presence was sometimes the source of intent
pain.

He did not know himself how much he loved
her, till she became old enough to share his ex-
cursions and be a companion. This occurred
at a far earlier age than would have been the
case had she been in England, living in a
nursery with other children. There is a pecu-
liarity in the education of a daughter, brought
up by a father only, which tends to develop early
a thousand of those portions of mind, which are
folded up, and often destroyed, under mere femi-
nine tuition. He made her fearless, by making
her the associate of his rides ; yet his incessant
care and watchfulness, the observant tenderness
of his manner, almost reverential on many points,
springing from the difference of sex, tended

30 LODORE.

to soften her mind, and make her spirit ductile
and dependent. He taught her to scorn pain,
but to shrink with excessive timidity from any
tiling that intrenched on the barrier of womanly
reserve which he raised about her. Nothing was
dreaded, indeed, by her, except his disapproba-
tion ; and a word or look from him made her,
with all her childish vivacity and thoughtless-
ness, turn as with a silken string, and bend at
once to his will.

There was an affectionateness of disposition
kneaded up in the very texture of her soul, which
j.ave it its "very form and pressure." It ac-
companied every word and action ; it revealed
itself in her voice, and hung like light over the
expression of her countenance.

Her earliest feeling was love of her father.
She would sit to watch him, guess at his thoughts,
and creep close, or recede away, as she read en-
couragement, or the contrary, in his eyes and
gestures. Except him, her only companion was
her servant ; and very soon she distinguished

lodori:. ;}1

between them, and felt proud and elate when
she quitted her for her father's side. Soon, she
almost never quitted it. Her gentle and docile
disposition rendered her unobtrusive, while her
inexhaustible spirits were a source of delightful
amusement. The goodness of her heart en-
deared her still more; and when it was called
forth by any demand made on it by him, it was
attended by such a display of excessive sensi-
bility, as at once caused him to tremble for her
future happiness, and love her ten thousand
times more. She grew into the image on which
his eye doated, and for whose presence his heart
perpetually yearned. Was he reading, or other-
wise occupied, he was restless, if yet she wen
not in the room ; and she would remain in si-
lence for hours, occupied by some little feminine
work, and all the while watching him,- catching
his first glance towards her, and obeying the
expression of his countenance, before he could
form his wish into words. When he left her for
any of his longer excursions, her little heart

32 LODORE.

would heave, and almost burst with sorrow.
On his return, she was always on the watch to
see, to fly into his arms, and to load him with
infantine caresses.

There was something in her face, that at this
early age gave token of truth and affection,
and asked for sympathy. Her large brown eyes,
such as are called hazel, full of tenderness and
sweetness, possessed within their depths an ex-
pression and a latent fire, which stirred the heart.
It is difficult to describe, or by words to call be-
fore another's mind, the picture so palpable to
our own. The moulding of her cheek, full just
below the eyes, and ending in a soft oval, gave
a peculiar expression, at once beseeching and
tender, and yet radiant with vivacity and glad-
ness. Frankness and truth were reflected on her
brow, like flowers in the clearest pool; the thou-
sand nameless lines and mouldings, which create
expression, were replete with beaming innocence
and irresistible attraction. Her small chiselled
nose, her mouth so delicately curved, gave

LODORE. 33

token of taste. In the whole was harmony, and
the upper part of the countenance seemed to
reign over the lower and to ennoble it, making her
usual placid expression thoughtful and earnest ;
so that not until she smiled and spoke, did the
gaiety of her guileless heart display itself, and
the vivacity of her disposition give change and
relief to the picture. Her figure was light and
airy, tall at an early age, and slender. Her rides
and rambles gave elasticity to her limbs, and
her step was like that of the antelope, spring)
and true. She had no fears, no deceit, no un-
told thought within her. Her matchless sweet-
ness of temper prevented any cloud from ever
dimming her pure loveliness: her voice cheered
the heart, and her laugh rang so true and joy-
ous on the ear, that it gave token in itself of the
sympathizing and buoyant spirit which was
her great charm. Nothing with her centred in
self; she was always ready to give her soul
away : to please her father was the unsleeping

law of all her actions, while his approbation im-

c 5

34 LODORK.

parted a sense of such pure but entire happi-
ness, that every other feeling faded into insig-
nificance in the comparison.

In the first year of exile and despair, Fitz-
hcnry looked forward to the long drawn succes-
sion of future years, with an impatience of woe
difficult to be borne. He was surprised to find,
as he proceeded in the quiet path of life which
he had selected, that instead of an increase of
unhappiness, a thousand pleasures smiled
around him. He had looked on it as a bitter
task to forget that he had a name and country,
both abandoned for ever ; now, the thought of
these seldom recurred to his memory. His forest
home became all in all to him. Wherever he
went, his child was by his side, to cheer and en-
liven him. When he looked on her, and re-
flected that within her frame dwelt spotless in-
nocence and filial piety, that within that lovely
" bower of flesh," 'not one thought or feel-
ing resided that was not akin to heaven in its
purity and sweetness, he, as by infection, ac-

lodori:. 36

quired a portion of the calm enjoyment, which
she in her taintless youth naturally possessed.

Even when any distant excursion forced him
to absent himself, her idea followed him to light
him cheerily on his way. He knew that he
should find her on his return busied in little pre-
parations for his welcome. In summer time, the
bower in the garden would be adorned ; in the in-
clement season of winter the logs would blaze on
the hearth, his chair be drawn towards the fire,
the stool for Ethel at his feet, with nothing to
remind him of the past, save her dear presence,
which drew its greatest charm, not from that,
but from the present. Fitzhenry forgot the
thousand delights of civilization, for which
formerly his heart had painfully yearned. He
forgot ambition, and the enticements of gaj
vanity ; peace and security appeared the
greatest blessings of life, and he had them

here.

Ethel herself was happy beyond the know-
ledge of her own happiness. She regretted no-

36 LODORE.

thing in the old country. She grew up among
the grandest objects of nature, and they were
the sweet influences to excite her to love and to a
sense of pleasure. She had come to the Illinois
attended by a black woman and her daughter,
whom her father had engaged to attend her
at New York, and had been sedulously kept
away from communication with the settlers —
an arrangement which it would have been diffi-
cult to bring about elsewhere, but in this seclud-
ed and almost deserted spot the usual charac-
teristics of the Americans were scarcely to be
found. Most of the inhabitants were emigrants
from Scotland, a peaceable, hard-working popu-
lation.

Ethel lived alone in their lonely dwelling.
Had she been of a more advanced age when taken
from England, her curiosity might have been
excited by the singularity of her position ; but
we rarely reason about that which has remained
unchanged since infancy ; taking it as a part of
the immutable order of things, we yield with-

LODORE. 37

out a question to its controul. Ethel did not
know that she was alone. Her attendants she
was attached to, and she idolized her father ;
his image filled all her little heart. Playmate
she had none, save a fawn and a kid, a dog
grown old in her service, and a succession of
minor favourites of the animal species.

It was Fitzhenry's wish to educate his
daughter to all the perfection of which the
feminine character is susceptible. As the first
step, he cut her off from familiar communica-
tion with the unrefined, and, watching over her
with the fondest care, kept her far aloof from
the very knowledge of what might, by its base-
ness or folly, contaminate the celestial beauty
of her nature. He resolved to make her all
that woman can be of generous, soft, and de-
voted ; to purge away every alloy of vanity and
petty passion — to fill her with honour, and yet
to mould her to the sweetest gentleness : to cul-
tivate her tastes and enlarge her mind, yet so
to controul her acquirements, as to render her

38 LODORE.

ever pliant to his will. She was to be lift-
ed above every idea of artifice or guile, or
the caballing spirit of the worldling — she was
to be single-hearted, yet mild. A creature
half poetry, half love — one whose pure lips had
never been tainted by an untruth — an enthusi-
astic being, who could give her life away for
the sake of another, and yet who honoured her-
self as a consecrated thing reserved for one wor-
ship alone. She was taught that no misfortune
should penetrate her soul, except such as visited
her affections, or her sense of right ; and that,
set apart from the vulgar uses of the world, she
was connected with the mass only through an-
other— that other, now her father and only
friend — hereafter, whosoever her heart might
select as her guide and head. Fitzhenry drew
his chief ideas from Milton's Eve, and adding
to this the romance of chivalry, he satisfied him-
self that his daughter would be the embodied
ideal of all that is adorable and estimable in
her sex.

l.ODORL. 39

The instructor can scarcely give sensibility
where it is essentially wanting-, nor talent to the
unpercipient block. But he can cultivate and
direct the affections of the pupil, who puts forth,
as a parasite, tendrils by which to cling, not
knowing to what — to a supporter or a destroyer.
The careful rearer of the ductile human plant
can instil his own religion, and surround tin-
soul by such a moral atmosphere, as shall be-
come to its latest day the air it breathes. Ethel,
from her delicate organization and quick parts.,
was sufficiently plastic in her father's bands.
When not with him, she was the playmate of
nature. Her birds and pet animals — her un-
taught but most kind nurse, were her asso-
ciates : she had her flowers to watch over, her
music, her drawings, and her books. Nature,
wild, interminable, sublime, was around her.
The ceaseless flow of the brawling stream, the
wide-spread forest, the changes of the sky, the
career of the wide-winged clouds, when the
winds drove them athwart the atmosphere, or

40 LODORE.

the repose of the still, and stirless summer air,
the stormy war of the elements, and the sense
of trust and security amidst their loudest
disturbances, were all circumstances to mould
her even unconsciously to an admiration of all
that is grand and beautiful.

A lofty sense of independence is, in man, the
best privilege of his nature. It cannot be
doubted, but that it were for the happiness of
the other sex that she were taught more to
rely on and act for herself. But in the cultiva-
tion of this feeling, the education of Fitzhenry
was lamentably deficient. Ethel was taught to
know herself dependent ; the support of an-
other was to be as necessary to her as her daily
food. She leant on her father as a prop that
could not fail, and she was wholly satisfied with
her condition. Her peculiar disposition of
course tinged Fitzhenry's theories with colours
not always their own, and her entire want of
experience in intercourse with her fellow-crea-
tures, gave a more decided tone to her sense of

LODORK. 41

dependence than she could have acquired, if the
circumstances of her daily life had brought her
into perpetual collision with others. She was
habitually cheerful even to gaiety ; yet her
character was not devoid of petulence, which
might become rashness or self-will if left
to herself. She had a clear and upright spirit,
and suspicion or unkindness roused her to in-
dignation, or sunk her into the depths of sor-
row. Place her in danger, and tell her she
must encounter it, and she called up all her
courage and became a heroine ; but on less occa-
sions, difficulties dismayed and annoyed her, and
she longed to escape from them into that dreamy
existence, for which her solitary mode of life
had given her a taste : active in person, in
mind she was too often indolent, and apt to
think that while she was docile to the injunc-
tions of her parent, all her duties were fulfilled.
She seldom thought, and never acted, for her-
self.

With all this she was so caressingly affec-

[-2 LODORE.

tionate, so cheerful and obedient, that she in-
spired her father with more than a father's
fondness. He lived but for her and in her.
Away, she was present to his imagination, the
loadstone to draw him home, and to fill that
home with pleasure. He exalted her in his
fancy into angelic perfection, and nothing oc-
curred to blot the fair idea. He in prospect
gave up his whole life to the warding off every
evil from her dear and sacred head. lie knew,
or rather believed, that while we possess one
real, devoted, and perfect friend, we cannot be
truly miserable. He said to himself — though
he did not love to dwell on the thought — that
of course cares and afflictions might hereafter
befal her ; but he was to stand the shield to
blunt the arrows of sorrow — the shelter in which
she might find refuge from every evil minis-
tration. The worst ills of life, penury and
desertion, she could never know ; and surely
he, who would stand so fast by her through all
— whose nightly dream and waking thought was

LODORE.

for her good, would even, when led to form
other connexions in life, so command her
affections as to be able to influence her hap-
piness.

Not being able to judge by comparison, Ethel
was unaware of the peculiarity of her good
fortune in possessing such a father, lint sh
loved him entirely ; looked up to him, and saw-
in him the reward of every exertion, the object
of each day^ employment. In early youth we
have no true notion of what the realities of life
are formed, and when we look forward it is
without any correct estimate of the chances of
existence. Ethel's visionary ideas were all full
of peace, seclusion, and her father. America,
or rather the little village of the Illinois which
she inhabited, was all the world to her; and she
had no idea that nearlv every tiling that con-
nected her to society existed beyond the far
Atlantic, in that tiny isle which made so small
a show upon her maps. Fitzhenry never men-
tioned these things to his daughter. She arrived

. i LODORE.

at the age of fifteen without forming a hope
that should lead her beyond the pale which had
hitherto enclosed her, or having imagined that
any train of circumstances might sudden h
transplant her from the lonely wilderness ti-
the thronged resorts of mankind.

LODORE. 45

CHAPTER IV.

Les deserts sont faits pour les amants, mais l'amour
ue se fait pas aux deserts.

Le Bardieh de Pabu.

Twelve years had led Ethel from infancy to
childhood ; and from child's estate to tlu*
blooming season of girlhood. It had brought
her father from the prime of a man's life, to the
period when it began to decline. Our feelings
probably are not less strong at fifty than they
were ten or fifteen years before; but they have
changed their objects, and dwell on far different
prospects. At five-and-thirty a man thinks of
what his own existence is ; when the maturity

46 LODORE.

of age has grown into its autumn, he is wrapt
up in that of others. The loss of wife or child
then becomes more deplorable, as being impos-
sible to repair ; for no fresh connexion can give
us back the companion of our earlier years, nor
a " new sprung racev> compensate for that, whose
career we hoped to see run. Fitzhenry had
been a man of violent passions; they had visited
his life with hurricane and desolation ; — were
these dead within him ? The complacency that
now distinguished his physiognomy seemed to
vouch for internal peace. But there was an
abstracted melancholy in his dark eyes — a look
that went beyond the objects immediately be-
fore him, that seemed to say that he often
anxiously questioned fate, and meditated with
roused fears on the secrets of futurity.

Educating his child, and various other em-
ployments, had occupied and diverted him.
He had been content ; he asked for no
change, but he dreaded it. Often when packets
arrived from England he hesitated to open

LODORE. 47

them. He could not account for his new-born
anxieties. Was change approaching ? " How
long will you be at peace?" Such warning
voice startled him in the solitude of the forests :
he looked round, but no human being was near,
yet the voice had spoken audibly to his sense ;
and when a transient air swept the dead Leaves
near, he shrunk as if a spirit passed, invisible
to sight, and yet felt by the subtle atmosphere,
as it gave articulation and motion to it.

" How long shall I be at peace ?* A thrill
ran through his veins. <k Am I then now at
peace? Do love, and hate, and despair, no
longer wage their accustomed war in my heart?
and is it true that gently flowing as my da\ -
have lately been, that during their course I have
not felt those mortal throes that once made life
so intolerable a burthen? It is so. I am at
}x>ace ; strange state for suffering mortality!
And this is not to last? My daughter ! there
only am I vulnerable; yet have I surrounded
her with a sevenfold shield. Mv own sweet

48 LODORE.

Ethel ! how can I avert from your dear head
the dark approaching storm ?

" But this is folly. These waking dreams are
the curse of inaction and solitude. Yester-
day I refused to accompany the exploring
party. I will go — I am not old ; fatigue, as
yet, does not seem a burthen ; but I shall sink
into premature age, if I allow this indolence to
overpower me. I will set out on this expedition,
and thus I shall no longer be at peace." Fitz-
henry smiled as if thus he were cheating
destiny.

The proposed journey was one to be made
by a ] tarty of his fellow-settlers, to trace the
route between their town and a large one, two
hundred miles off, to discover the best mode
of communication. There was nothing very
arduous in the undertaking. It was September,
and hunting would diversify the tediousness of
their way. Fitzhenry left his daughter under
the charge of her attendants, to amuse herself
with her books, her music, her gardening, her

LODORE. ft

needle, and, more than all, her new and very
favourite study of drawing and sketching.
Hitherto the pencil had scarcely been one of Ik r
occupations; but an accident gave scope to her
acquiring in it that improvement for which she
found that she had prodigious inclination, and
she was assured, no inconsiderable talent.

The occasion that had given rise to this new
employment was this. Three or four month-
before, a traveller arrived for the purpose of
settling, who claimed a rather higher intellec-
tual rank than those around him. He was the
son of an honest tradesman of the city of Lon-
don. He displayed early signs of talent, and
parental fondness gave him opportunities i I
cultivating it. The means of his family were
small, but some of the boy's drawings having at-
tracted the attention of an artist, he entered upon
the profession of a painter, with sanguine hop
of becoming hereafter an ornament to it.

Two obstacles were in the way of his succesi
He wanted that intense love of his art — thai

VOL. I. i)

50 LODORE.

enthusiastic perseverance in labour, which dis-
tinguishes the man of genius from the man of
talent merely. He regarded it as a means, not
an end. Probably therefore he did not feel
that capacity in himself for attaining first-rate
excellence, which had been attributed to him.
He had a taste also for social pleasures and
vulgar indulgences, incompatible with industry
and with that refinement of mind which is so
necessary an adjunct to the cultivation of the
imaginative arts. Whitelock had none of all
this; but he was quick, clever, and was looked
on among his associates as a spirited, agreeable
fellow. The death of his parents left him in
possession of their little wealth : depending for
tlie future on the resources which his talent
promised him, he dissipated the two or three
hundred pounds which formed his inheritance:
debt, difficulties, with consequent abstraction
from his profession, completed his ruin. He
arrived at the Illinois in search of an uncle, on
whose kindness he intended to depend, with six

LODORE. 51

dollars in his purse. J lis uncle bad long befoi
disappeared from that part of the country.
Whitelock found liimsclf destitute. Neith r
his person, which was tliiiiiiiiitixc-, nor Ins con-
stitution, which was delicate, fitted him I'
manual labour; nor was he acquainted with
any mechanic art. "What could he do in Ame-

J

rica? He began to feel very deeply the inroads
of despair, when hearing of the superior wealth
of Mr. Fitzhenry, and that he was an English-
man, he paid him a visit, feeling secure that !
could interest him in his favour.

The emigrant's calculations were just. lli>
distinguished countryman exerted himself to
enable the young man to obtain a subsistence.
He established him in a school, and gave him
his best counsels how to proceed. Whitelock
thanked him ; commenced the most odious task
of initiating the young Americans in the rudi-
ments of knowledge, and sought meanwhile :- i
amuse himself to the best of his power. Fitz-
henry's house he first made his resort. He

n 2

5'2 LODORE.

not to be baffled by the reserved courtesy of his
host. The comfort and English appearance of
the exile's dwellir.*; were charming to him ; and
while he could hear himself talk, he fancied that
every one about him must be satisfied. Fitz-
henry was excessively annoyed. There was an
innate vulgarity in his visitant, and an unli-
censed familiarity that jarred painfully with the
refined habits of his sensitive nature. Still, in
America he had been forced to tolerate even worse
than this, and he bore Whitelock's intrusions
as well as he could, seeking only to put such
obstacles in the way of his too frequent visits,
as would best serve to curtail them. White-
lock's chief merit was his talent ; he had a real
eye for the outward forms of nature, for the
tints in which she loves to robe herself, and
the beauty in which she is for ever invested.
He occupied himself by sketching the surround-
ing scenery, and gave life and interest to many
a savage glade and solitary nook, which, till he
came, had not been discovered to be picturesque.

LODORK. 53

Ethel regarded his drawings with wonder and
delight, and easily obtained permission from her
father to take lessons in the captivating art.
Fitzhenry thought that of all occupations, that
of the pencil, if pursued earnestly and with
real taste, most conduced to the student's hap-
piness. Its scope is not personal display, as is
the case most usually witli music, and yet it
has a visible result which satisfies the mind that
something has been done. It does not fatigue
the attention like the study of languages, yet
it suffices to call forth the powers, and to fill
the mind with pleasurable sensations. It is a
most feminine occupation, well replacing, on a
more liberal and rational scale, the tapestry o^
our grandmothers. Ethel had already shown a
great inclination for design, and her father was
glad of so favourable an opportunity for culti-
vating it. A few difficulties presented them-
selves. Whitelock had brought his own mate-
rials with him, but he possessed no superfluity
— and they were not to be procured at the sett!

54 LODORE.

ment. The artist offered to transfer them all
for Ethel's convenience to her own abode, so
that he might have free leave to occupy himself
there also. Fitzhenry saw all the annoyances
consequent on this plan, and it was finally
arranged that his daughter should, three or
four times a week, visit the school-house, and
in a little room, built apart for her especial use,
pursue her study.

The habit of seeing and instructing his lovely
pupil awoke new ideas in Whitelock's fruitful
brain. Who was Mr. Fitzhenry ? What did
he in the Illinois? AVhitelock sounded him
carefully, but gathered no information, except
that this gentleman showed no intention of

er quitting the settlement. But this was
much. He was evidently in easy circumstances
— Ethel was his only child. She was here a
garden-rose amidst briars, and Whitelock flat-
tered himself that his position was not materi-
ally different. Could he succeed in the scheme
that all these considerations suggested to him,

LODORE.

his fortune was made, or, at least, he should

bid adieu for ever to blockhead boys and the
dull labours of instruction. As these views
opened upon him, he took more pains to in-
gratiate himself with Fit/henry. He became
humble; lie respectfully sought his advice —
and while he contrived a thousand modes of
throwing himself in his way, he appeared less
intrusive than before — and yet he felt that he
did not get on. Fitzhenry was kind to him, as a
countryman in need of assistance; he admired
his talent as an artist, but he shrunk from the
smallest approach to intimacy. Whitelock hoped
that he was only shy, but he feared that he was
proud; he tried to break through the barrier
of reserve opposed to him, and he became a
considerable annoyance to the recluse. He
waylaid him during his walks with his daugh-
ter— forced his company upon them, and foru-
ms' a thousand oblioino* excuses for entering
their dwelling, he destroyed the charm of their
quiet evenings, and yet tempered his manners

)6 LODOKK.

K

with such shows of humility and gratitude as
Fitzhenry could not resist.

Whitelock next tried his battery on the
young lady herself. Her passion for her new
acquirement afforded scope for his enterprizing
disposition. She was really glad to see him
whenever he came ; questioned him about the
pictures which existed in the old world, and,
with a mixture of wonder and curiosity, began
to think that there was magic in an art, that pro-
duced the effects which he described. With all
the enthusiasm of youth, she tried to improve
herself, and the alacrity with which she welcomed
her master, or hurried to his school, looked
almost like — Whitelock could not exactly tell
what, but here was ground to work upon.

When Fitzhenry went on the expedition al-
ready mentioned, Ethel gave up all her time,
with renewed ardour, to her favourite pursuit.
Early in the morning she was seen tripping
down to the school-house, accompanied by her
faithful negro woman. The attendant used her

LODORE. 57

distaff and spindle, Ethel her brush, and the
hours flew unheeded. Whitelock would have
been glad that her eyes had not always been so
intently fixed on the paper before her. He
proposed sketching from nature. The)' made
studies from trees, and contemplated the chang-
ing hues of earth and sky together. While
talking of tints, and tones of colour spread over
the celestial hemisphere and the earth beneath,
were it not an easy transition to speak of
those which glistened in a lady's eve, or
warmed her cheek ? In the solitude of his
chamber, thus our adventurer reasoned ; and
wondered each night why he hesitated to be-
gin. Whitelock was short and ill-mack-. His
face was not of an agreeable cast : it was im-
possible to see him without being impressed
with the idea that he was a man of talent ;
but he was otherwise decidedly ugly. This
disadvantage was counterbalanced by an over-
weening vanity, which is often to be re-
marked in those whose personal defects place

d 5

58 LODOIIE.

them a step below their fellows. He knew the
value of an appearance of devotion, and the
power which an acknowledgment of entire
thraldom exercises over the feminine imagina-
tion. He had succeeded ill with the father;
but, after all, the surest way was to captivate
the daughter : the affection of her parent would
induce him to ratify any step necessary to her
happiness ; and the chance afforded by this
parent's absence for putting his plan into execu-
tion, might never again occur — why then delay ?
It was, perhaps, strange that Fitzhenry,
alive to the smallest evil that might approach
his darling child, and devoted to her sole
guardianship, should have been blind to the
sort of danger which she ran during his absence.
But the paternal protection is never entirely
efficient. A father avenges an insult ; but he
has seldom watchfulness enough to prevent it.
In the present instance, the extreme youth of
Ethel might well serve as an excuse. She was
scarcely fifteen ; and, light-hearted and blithe,

LODORE. 59

none but childish ideas had found place in her
unruffled mind. Her father vet regarded her
as he had done when she was wont to climb his
knee, or to gambol before him : he still looked
forward to her womanhood as to a distant event,
which would necessitate an entire change in his
mode of living, but which need not for several
vears enter into his calculations. Thus when
he departed, he felt glad to get rid, for a time,
of Whitelock's disagreeable society ; but it never
crossed his imagination that his angelic girl
could be annoyed or injured, meanwhile, by tin
presumptuous advances of a man whom he de-
spised.

Ethel knew nothing of the language of lov<
She had read of it in her favourite poets; but
she was yet too young and guileless to apply
any of its feelings to herself. Love had always
appeared to her blended with the highest ima-
ginative beauty and heroism, and thus was in
her eyes, at once awful and lovely. Nothing
had vulgarized it to her. The greatest i

GO LODORE,

were its slaves, and according as their choice
fell on the worthy or unworthy, they were ele-
vated or disgraced by passion. It was the part
of a woman so to refine and educate her mind, as
to be the cause of good alone to him whose fate
depended on her smile. There was something
of the Orondates' vein in her ideas ; but they
were too vague and general to influence her
actions. Brought up in American solitude, with
all the refinement attendant on European so-
cietv, she was aristocratic, both as regarded rank
and sex ; but all these were as yet undeveloped
feelings — seeds planted by the careful paternal
hand, not yet called into life or growth.

Whitelock began his operations, and was
obliged to be explicit to be at all understood.
He spoke of misery and despair ; he urged no
plea, sought no favour, except to be allowed
to speak of his wretchedness. Ethel listened —
Eve listened to the serpent, and since then, her
daughters have been accused of an aptitude to
give ear to forbidden discourse. He spoke well,

LODORE. Cl

too, for he was a man of unquestioned talent.
It is a strange feeling for a girl, when first she
finds the power put into her hand of inrluencii
the destiny of another to happiness or misery.
She is like a magician holding: for the first time
a fairy wand, not having yet had exp< rience of
its poteney. Ethel had read of the power of
love ; but a doubt had often suggested itself,
of how far she herself should hereafter exerci-
the influence which is the attribute of her sex.
Whitelock dispelled that doubt. He impressed
on her mind the idea that he lived or died
through her fiat.

For one instant, vanity awoke in her young
heart ; and she tripped back to her home with
a smile of triumph on her lips. The feeling
was short-lived. She entered her father's li-
brary ; and his image appeared to rise before
her, to regulate and purify her thoughts. If
he had been there, what could she have said to
him — she who never concealed a thought ? — or
how would he have received the information she

()'2 LODORE.

had to give? What had happened, had not
been the work of a day ; Whitelock had for a
week or two proceeded in an occult and myste-
rious manner : but this day he had withdrawn
the veil ; and she understood much that had
appeared strange in him before. The dark, ex-
pressive eyes of her father she fancied to be before
her, penetrating the depths of her soul, discover-
ing her frivolity, and censuring her lowly vanitv;
and, even though alone, she felt abashed. Our
faults are apt to assume giant and exaggerated
forms to our eyes in youth, and Ethel felt de-
graded and humiliated ; and remorse sprung up
in her gentle heart, substituting itself for the
former pleasurable emotion.

The young arc always in extremes. Ethel
put away her drawings and paintings. She se-
cluded herself in her home ; and arranged so
well, that notwithstanding the freedom of
American manners, Whitelock contrived to
catch but a distant glimpse of her during the
one other week that intervened before her

LODORK.

father's return. Troubled at this behaviour,
he felt his bravery ooze out. To have offended
Fitzhenry, was an unwise proceeding, at best ;
but when he remembered the haughty and re-
served demeanour of the man, he recoiled, trem-
bling, from the prospect of encountering him.

Ethel was very concise in the expressions she
used, to make her father, on Ins return, un-
derstand what had happened during his ab-
sence. Fitzhenry heard her with indignation
and bitter self-reproach. The natural impetu-
osity of his disposition returned on him, like a
stream which had been cheeked in its progri
but which had gathered strength from the de-
lay. On a sudden, the future, with all its dif-
ficulties and trials, presented itself to his eyes;
and he was determined to go out to meet them,
rather than to await their advent in his seclu-
sion. His resolution formed and he put it into
immediate execution: he would instantly quit
the Illinois. The world was before him : and
while he paused on the western shores of the

G4< LODORE.

Atlantic, he could decide upon his future path.
But he would not remain where he was another
season. The present, the calm, placid present,
had fled like morning mist before the new risen
breeze : all appeared dark and turbid to his
heated imagination. Change alone could ap-
pease the sense of danger that had risen within
him. Change of place, of circumstances, — of
all that for the last twelve years had formed his
life. " How long am I to remain at peace ?"
— the prophetic voice heard in the silence of
the forests, recurred to his memory, and
thrilled through his frame. " Peace ! was I ever
at peace? ^Vas this unquiet heart ever still,
as, one by one, the troubled thoughts which
are its essence, have risen and broken against
the barriers that embank them ? Peace ! My
own Ethel ! — all I have done — all I would do —
is to gift thee with that blessing which has for
ever fled the thirsting lips of thy unhappy pa-
rent." And thus, governed by a fevered fancy
and untamed passions, Fitzhenry forgot the

LODORE. 65

tranquil lot which he had learnt to value and
enjoy; and quitting the haven he had sought,
as if it had never been a place of shelter to him,
unthankful for the many happy hours wind)
had blessed him there, he hastened to reach the
stormier seas of life, whose breakers and whose
winds were ready to visit him with shipwreck
and destruction.

6*6 LODORK.

cc

CHAPTER V.

The boy is father of the man."

Wordsworth.

Fitzhenry having formed his resolution, acted
upon it immediately : and yet, while hastening
every preparation for his departure, he felt re-
turn upon him that inquietude and intolerable
sense of suffering, which of late years had sub-
sided in his soul. Now and then it struck, him
as madness to quit his house, his garden, the
trees of his planting, the quiet abode which he
had reared in the wilderness. He gave his orders,
but he was unable to command himself to attend
to any of the minutiae of circumstance connected
with his removal. As when he first arrived,

LODORE.

again he sought relief in exercise and the open
air. He felt each ministration of nature to be
his friend, and man, in every guise, to be his
enemy. He was about to plunge among them
again. What would be the result?

Yet this was no abode for the opening bloom
of Ethel. For her good his beloved and safe
seclusion must be sacrificed, and that lie was
acting for her benefit, and not his own, served to
calm his mind. She contemplated their migra-
tion with something akin to joy. We could
almost believe that we are destined by Provi-
dence to an unsettled position on the globe, so
invariably is a love of change implanted in tlu-
young. It seems as if the eternal Lawgiver in-
tended that, at a certain age, man should leave
father, mother, and the dwelling of his infancy,
to seek his fortunes over the wide world. A
few natural tears Ethel shed — they were not
many. She, usually so resigned and quiet in
her feelings, was now in a state of excitement :
dreamy, shadowy visions floated before her of

68 lodore.

what would result from her journey, and curio-
sity and hope gave life and a bright colouring
to the prospect.

The day came at last. On the previous Sun-
day she had knelt for the last time in church on
the little hassock which had been her's from in-
fancy, and walked along the accustomed path-
way towards her home for the last time. During
the afternoon, she visited the village to bid
adieu to her few acquaintances. The sensitive
refinement of Fitzhenry had caused him to
guard his daughter jealously from familiar in-
tercourse with their fellow settlers, even as
a child. But she had been accustomed to
enter the poorer cottages, to assist the distressed,
and now and then to partake of tea drinking
with the minister. This personage, however,
was not stationary. At one time they had had
a venerable old man whom Ethel had begun to
love ; but latterly, the pastor had not been a
person to engage her liking, and this had loosen-
ed her only tie with her fellow colonists.

LODORK. 69

The day came. The father and daughter,
with three attendants, entered their carriage,
and wound along the scarcely formed road.
One by one they passed, and lost sight of ob-
jects, that for many years had been woven in
with the texture of their lives. Fitzhenry was
sad. Ethel wept, unconstrainedlv, plentiful
showery tears, which cost so much less to the
heart, than the few sorrowful drops which, in
after life, we expend upon our woes. Still as
they proceeded the objects that met their eyes
became less familiar and le*> endeared. They
began to converse, and when they arrived
at their lodging for the night, Ethel was cheer-
ful, and her father, mastering the unquiet feel-
ings which disturbed him, exerted himself to
converse with her on such topics as would serve
to introduce her most pleasantly to the new
scenes which she was about to visit.

There was one object, however, which lay
nearest to the emigrant's heart, to which he
had not yet acquired courage to allude; his own

70 EODORE.

position in the world, his former fortunes, and
the circumstances that had driven him from
Europe, to seek peace and obscurity in the wil-
derness. It was a strange tale; replete with such
incidents as could scarcely be made intelligible
to the nursling of solitude — one difficult for a
father to disclose to his daughter ; involving
besides a consideration of his future conduct,
to which he did not desire to make her a party.
Thus they talked of the cities they might see,
and the strange sights she would behold, and
but once did her father refer to their own posi-
tion. After a long silence, on his part sombre
and abstracted — as Prospero asked the ever
sweet Miranda, so did Fitzhenry inquire of
his daughter, if she had memory of aught pre-
ceding their residence in the Illinois ? And
Ethel, as readily as Miranda, replied in the
affirmative.

" And what, my love, do you remember ?
Gold-laced liveries and spacious apartments ?"

Ethel shook her head. " It may be the me-

LODORE. 71

mory of a dream that haunts me," she replied,
44 and not a reality; but I have frequently t!
image before me, of haying been kissed and
caressed by a beautiful lady, very richly
drei sed."

Fitzhcnry actually started at this reply. " I
have often conjectured/' continued Ethel.
" that that lovely vision was my dear mother :
and that when — when you lost her, you de-
spised all the rest of the world, and exiled
yourself to America."

Ethel looked inquiringly at her father as she
made this leading remark ; but he in a sharp
and tremulous accent repeated the w<
" Lost her !"

" Yes,"' said Ethel, " I mean, is she not 1<
— did she not die?""

Fitzhenry sighed heavily, and turning his
head towards the window on his side, became
absorbed in thought, and Ethel feared to dis-
turb him by continuing the conversation.

It has not been difficult all along for the

72 LODORE.

reader to imagine, that the lamented brother of
the honourable Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry and
the exile of the Illinois are one ; and while
father and daughter are proceeding on their
way towards New York, it will be necessary,
for the interpretation of the ensuing pages, to
dilate somewhat on the previous history of the
father of our lovely heroine.

It may be remembered, that Henry Fitz-
henry was the only son of Admiral Lord Lodore.
He was, from infancy, the pride of his father
and the idol of his sister ; and the lives of both
were devoted to exertions for his happiness and
well-being. The boy soon became aware of
their extravagant fondness, and could not do
less in consequence than fancy himself a person
of considerable importance. The distinction that
Lord Lodore's title and residence bestowed upon
Longfield made his son and heir a demigod
among the villagers. As he rode through it
on his pony, every one smiled on him and
bowed to him ; and the habit of regarding him-

LODORE. 73

self superior to all the world, became too
much an habit to afford triumph, though any
circumstances that had lessened his conse-
quence in his own eyes would have been
matter of astonishment and indignation. His
personal beauty was the delight of the wo-
men, his agility and hardihood the topic of
the men of the village. For although essen-
tially spoiled, he was not pampered in luxury.
His father, with all his fondness, would hav<
despised him heartily had he not been inured
to hardship, and rendered careless of it. Rous-
seau might have passed his approbation upon
his physical education, while his moral nur-
ture was the most perniciously indulgent.
Thus, at the same time, his passions were fos-
tered, and he possessed none of those habits of
effeminacy, which sometimes stand in the gap.
preventing our young self-indulged aristocracy
from rebelling against the restraints of sociel \
Still generous and brave as was his father, be-
nevolent and pious as was his sister, Henry

VOL. I. 1

74 lodori:.

Fitzhenry was naturally led to love their
virtues, and to seek their approbation by imi-
tating them. He would not wantonly have
inflicted a pang upon a human being ; yet
he exerted any power he might possess to
quell the smallest resistance to his desires; and
unless when they were manifested in the most
intelligible manner, lie scarcely knew that his
fellow-creatures had any feelings at all, except
pride and gladness in serving him, and grati-
tude when he showed them kindness. Anv
poor family visited by rough adversity, any
unfortunate child enduring unjust oppression,
he assisted earnestly and with all his heart.
He was courageous as a lion, and. upon occa-
sion, soft-hearted and pitiful : but once roused to
anger bv opposition, his eyes darted fire, his
little form swelled, his boyish voice grew big,
nor could he be pacified except by the most
entire submission on the part of his antagonist.
Unfortunately for him, submission usually fol-
lowed any stand made against his authority, for

lodori:. 75

it was always a contest with an inferior, and he
was never brought into wholesome struggle with
an equal.

At the age of thirteen he went to Eton, and
here every thing wore an altered and mi-
pleasing aspect. Here were no servile menials
nor humble friends. He stood one among
many — equals, superiors, inferiors, all full of
a sense of their own rights, their own powers;
lie desired to lead, and he had no followers ;
he wished to stand aloof, and his dignity,
even his privacy, was perpetually invaded.
His schoolfellows soon discovered his weakness
— it became a bye-word among them, and was
the object of such practical jokes, as seemed
to the self-idolizing boy, at once frightful and
disgusting. He had no resource. Did he lay
his length under some favourite tree to dream of
home and independence, his tormentors were at
hand with some new invention to rouse and mo-
lest him. He fixed his large dark eyes on them,
and he curled his lips in scorn, trying to awe

e 2

76 LODORE.

them by haughtiness and frowns, and shouts of
laughter replied to the concentrated passion of
his soul. He poured forth vehement invec-
tive, and hootings were the answer. He had one
other resource, and that in the end proved
successful: — a pitched battle or two elevated
him in the eyes of his fellows, and as they began
to respect him, so he grew in better humour
with them and with himself. His good-nature
procured him friends, and the sun once more-
shone unclouded upon him.

Yet this was not all. He put himself foremost
among a troop of wild and uncivilized school-
boys; but he was not of them. His tastes, fos-
tered in solitude, were at once more manly anel
dangerous than theirs. He could not distin-
guish the nice line drawn by the customs of
the place between a pardonable resistance,
or rather evasion of authority, and rebellion
against it ; and above all, he could not submit
to practise equivocation and deceit. His first
contests were with his school-fellows, his next

T.ODOiu;. 77

were with his masters. He would not stoop
to shows of humility, nor tame a nature accus-
tomed to take pride in daring and independence.
He resented injustiee wherever he encountered
or fancied it ; he equally spurned it when prac-
tised on himself, or defended others when they
were its object — freedom was the watchword
of his heart. Freedom from all trammels, ex-
cept those of which he was wholly unconscious,
imposed on him by his passions and pride. His
good-nature led him to side with the weak ; and
he was indignant that his mere fiat did not suffice
to raise them to his own level, or that his repre-
sentations did not serve to open the eyes of all
around him to the true merits of any disputed
question.

He had a friend at school. A youth whose
slender frame, fair, effeminate countenance, and
gentle habits, rendered him ridiculous to his fel-
lows, while an unhappy incapacity to learn his al-
lotted tasks made him in perpetual disgrace with
his masters. The boy was unlike the rest ; he

78 LODORE.

had wild fancies and strange inexplicable ideas.
He said he was a mystery to himself — he was
at once so wise and foolish. The mere aspect
of a grammar inspired him with horror, and a
kind of delirious stupidity seized him in the
classes ; and yet he could discourse with elo-
quence, and pored with unceasing delight over
books of the abstrusest philosophy. He seemed
incapable of feeling the motives and impulses of
other boys: when they jeered him, he would
answer gravely with some story of a ghastly
spectre, and tell wild legends of weird beings,
who roamed through the dark fields bv night,

O J CD 7

or sat wailing by the banks of streams: was he
struck, he smiled and turned away ; he would
not fag; he never refused to learn, but' could
not ; he was the scoff, and butt, and victim, of
the whole school.

Fitzhenry stood forward in his behalf, and the
face of things was changed. He insisted that
his friend should have the same respect paid
him as himself, and the boys left off tormenting

lodori:. 79

him. When they ceased to injure, they began
to like him, and he had soon a set of friends
whom he solaced with his wild stories and mys-
terious notions. But his powerful advocate was
unable to advance his cause with his masters,
and the cruelty exercised on him revolted Fitz-
henry's generous soul. One day, he stood
forth to expostulate, and to show wherefore
Derham should not be punished for a defect,
that was not his fault. He was ordered to
be silent, and he retorted the command with
iierceness. As he saw the slender, bending form
of his friend seized to be led to punishment, he
sprang forward to rescue him. This open rebel-
lion astounded every one ; a kind of consterna-
tion, which feared to show the gladness it felt,
possessed the boyish subjects of the tyro king-
dom. Force conquered ; Fitzhenry was led
away ; and the masters deliberated what sen-
tence to pass on him. He saved them from
coming to a conclusion by flight.

He hid himself during the day in Windsor

80 LODORE.

Forest, and at night he entered Eton, and seal-
ing a wall, tapped at the bedroom window of his
friend. " Come," said he, u come with me.
Leave these tyrants to eat their own hearts with
rage — my home shall be your home."

Derham embraced him, but would not con-
sent. " My mother," he said, " I have pro-
mised my mother to bear all ;" and tears gush-
ed from his large light blue eyes ; " but for her,
the green grass of this spring were growing on
my grave. I dare not pain her.1'

" Be it so," said Fitzhenry; " nevertheless,
before the end of a month, you shall be free. I
am leaving this wretched place, where men rule
because they are strong, for my father's house.
I never yet asked for a thing that I ought to
have, that it was not granted me. I am a
boy here, there I am a man — and can do as
men do. Representations shall be made to your
parents ; you shall be taken from school : we
shall be free and happy together this summer
at Longfleld. Good night ; I have far to walk,

LODORE. 81

for the stage coachmen would be shy of me
near Eton ; but I shall get to London on foot,
and sleep to-morrow in my father's house. Keep
up your heart, Derham, be a man — this shall
not la*t long ; we shall triumph yet."

e 5

8'2 LODORE.

CHAPTER VI.

What is youth ? a dancing billow,
Winds behind, and rocks before !

Wordsworth.

This exploit terminated Fitzhenry's career at
Eton. A private tutor was engaged, who re-
sided with the family, for the purpose of pre-
paring him for college, and at the age of
seventeen he was entered at Oxford. He still
continued to cultivate the friendship of Der-
ham. This youth was the younger son of
a rich and aristocratic family, whose hopes
and cares centred in their heir, and who cared
little for the comfort of the younger. Der-
ham had been destined for the sea, and

LODORK. 83

scarcely did his delicate health, and timid,
nervous disposition exempt him from the com-
mon fate of a boy, whose parents did not know
what to do with him. The next idea was to
place him in the church ; and at last, at his
earnest entreaty, he was permitted to go abroad,
to study at one of the German universities, so
to prepare himself, by a familiarity with modern
languages, for diplomacy.

It was singular how well Fitzhenry and hi^
sensitive friend agreed; — the one looked up with
unfeigned admiration — the other felt attracted
by a mingled compassion and respect, that flat-
tered his vanity, and yet served as excitement
and amusement. From Durham, Fitzhenry im-
bibed in theory much of that contempt of tin-
world's opinion, and carelessness of conse-
quences, which was inherent in the one, but
was an extraneous graft on the proud and im-
perious spirit of the other. Derham looked
with calm yet shy superiority on his fellow-
creatures. Yet superiority is not the word,

84 LODORE.

since he did not feel himself superior to, but
different from — incapable of sympathizing or
extracting sympathy, he turned away with a
smile, and pursued his lonely path, thronged
with visions and fancies — while his friend, when
he met check or rebuff, would fire up, his eyes
sparkling, his bosom heaving with intolerable
indignation.

After two years spent at Oxford, instead of
remaining to take his degree, Fitzhenry made
an earnest request to be permitted to visit
his friend, who was then at Jena. It was but
anticipating the period for his travels, and upon
his promise to pursue his studies abroad, he
won a somewhat reluctant consent from his fa-
ther. Once on the continent, the mania of tra-
velling seized him. He visited Italy, Poland,
and Russia : he bent his wayward steps from
north to south, as the whim seized him. He
became of age, and his father earnestly desired
his return : but again and again he solicited per-
mission to remain, from autumn till spring, and

LODORE. 85

from spring till autumn, until the very flower
of his youth seemed destined to be wasted
in aimless rambles, and an intercourse with
foreigners, that must tend to unnationalize him,
and to render him unfit for a career in his own
country. Growing accustomed to regulate his
own actions, he changed the tone of request into
that of announcing his intentions. At length,
he was summoned home to attend the death-bed
of his father. He paid the last duties to his re-
mains, provided for the comfortable establish-
ment of his sister in the family mansion at
Longfield, and then informed her of his deter-
mination of returning immediately to Vienna.

During this visit he had appeared to live
rather in a dream than in the actual world. He
had mourned for his father ; he paid the most
affectionate attentions to his sister; but this
formed, as it were, the surface of things; a
mightier impulse ruled his inner mind. His
life seemed to depend upon certain letters which
he received; and when the day had been oc-

86 LODORE.

cupied by business, he passed the night in
writing answers. He was often agitated in the
highest degree, almost always abstracted in
reverie. The outward man — the case of Lodore
was in England — his passionate and undisci-
plined soul was far away, evidently in the keep-
ing of another.

Elizabeth, sorrowing for the loss of her father,
was doubly afflicted when she heard that it was
her brother's intention to quit England imme-
diately. She had fondly hoped that he would,
adorned by his newly-inherited title, and en-
dowed with the gifts of fortune, step upon
the stage of the world, and shine forth the hero
of his age and country. Her affections, her
future prospects, her ambition, were all centred
in him ; and it was a bitter pang to feel that
the glory of these was to be eclipsed by the
obscurity and distant residence which he pre-
ferred. Accustomed to obedience, and to re-
gard the resolutions of the men about her. as
laws with which she had no right to interfere,

LODOTU. 87

she did not remonstrate, she only wept. Moved
by her tears, Lord Lodore made the immense
sacrifice of one month to gratify her, which he
spent in reading and writing letters at Long-
field, in pacing the rooms or avenues ab-
sorbed in reverie, or in riding over the most
solitary districts, with no object apparently in
view, except that of avoiding his fellow-crea-
tures. Elizabeth had the happiness of seeing
the top of his head as he leant over his desk in
the library, from a little hillock in the garden,
which she sought for the purpose of beholding
that blessed vision. She enjoyed also the plea-
sure of hearing him pace his room during the
greater part of the night. Sometimes he con-
versed with her, and then how like a god be
seemed ! His extensive acquaintance with men and
things, the novel but choice language in which

he clothed his ideas ; his vivid descriptions, his

i
melodious voice, and the exquisite grace of his

manner, made him rise like the planet of d.

upon her. Too soon her sun set. If ever she

88 LODORE.

hinted at the prolongation of his stay, he grew
moody, and she discovered with tearful anguish
that his favourite ride was towards the sea,
often to the very shore : " I seem half free when
I only look upon the waves," he said ; " they
remind me that the period of liberty is at hand,

when I shall leave this dull land for "

A sob from his sister checked his speech, and
he repented his ingratitude. Yet when the
promised month had elapsed, he did not defer
his journey a single day : already had he en-
gaged his passage at Harwich. A fair wind
favoured his immediate departure. Elizabeth
accompanied him on board, almost she wished
to be asked to sail with him. No word but
that of a kind adieu was uttered by him. She
returned to shore, and watched his lessening
sail. Wherefore did he leave his native coun-
try ? Wherefore return to reside in lands,
whose language, manners, and religion, were all
at variance with his own ? These questions oc-
cupied the gentle spinster's thoughts ; she had

T.ODORK. 89

little except such meditations to vary the hours,
as years stole on unobserved, and she continued
to spend her blameless tranquil days in her
native village

The new Lord Lodore was one of those men,
not unfrequently met with in the world, whose
early youth is replete with mighty promise ;
who, as they advance in life, continue to excite
the expectation, the curiosity, and even the
enthusiasm of all around them ; but as the sun
on a stormy day now and then glimmers forth,
giving us hopes of conquering brightness, and
yet slips down to its evening eclipse without re-
deeming the pledge ; so do these men present
every appearance of one day making a con-
spicuous figure, and yet to the end, as it were,
they only gild the edges of the clouds in which
they hide themselves, and arrive at the term of
life, the promise of its dawn unfulfilled. Pas-
sion, and the consequent engrossing occupations,
usurped the place of laudable ambition and use-
ful exertion. He wasted his nobler energies

90 LODORl".

upon pursuits which were mysteries to the
world, yet which formed the sum of his exist-
ence. It was not that he was destitute of loftier
aspirations. Ambition was the darling growth
of his soul — but weeds and parasites, an unre-
gulated and unpruned overgrowth, twisted itself
around the healthier plant, and threatened its
destruction.

Sometimes he appeared among the English
in the capital towns of the continent, and was
always welcomed with delight. His manners
were highly engaging, a little reserved with
men, unless they were intimates, attentive to
women, and to them a subject of interest, they
scarcely knew why. A mysterious fair one was
spoken of as the cynosure of his destiny, and
some desired to discover his secret, while others
would have been glad to break the spell that
bound him to this hidden star. Often for
months he disappeared altogether, and was
spoken of as having secluded himself in some un-
attainable district of northern Germany, Poland,

I.ODORE. 91

or Courland. Yet all these erratic movements
were certainly governed by one law, and that was
love; — love unchangeable and intense, else where-
fore was he cold to the attractions of his fair
countrywomen ? And why, though he gazed
with admiration and interest on the families of
lovely girls, whose successive visitations on the
continent strike the natives with such wonder,
why did he not select some distinguished beauty,
with blue eyes, and auburn locks, as the object
of his exclusive admiration ? He had often con-
versed with such with seeming delight; but he
could withdraw from the fascination unharmed
and free. Sometimes a very kind and agreeable
mamma contrived half to domesticate him ; but
after lounging, and turning over music-books,
and teaching steps for a week, he was gone — a ^

farewell card probably the only token of regret.
Yet he was universally liked, and the ladies
were never weary of auguring the time to be
not far off, when he would desire to break
the chains that bound him ; — and then — he

92 LODORE.

must marry. He was so quiet, so domestic,
so gentle, that he would make, doubtless, a
kind and affectionate husband. Among English-
men, he had a friend or two, by courtesy so
called, who were eager for him to return to his
native country, and to enter upon public life.
He lent a willing car to these persuasions, and
appeared annoyed at some secret necessity that
prevented his yielding to them. Once or twice
he had said, that his present mode of life should
not last for ever, and that he would come among
them at no distant day. And yet years stole
on, and mystery and obscurity clouded him.
He grew grave, almost sombre, and then almost
discontented. Any one habituated to him might
have discovered strusjffles beneath the addi-
tional seriousness of his demeanour— struggles
that promised final emancipation from his long-
drawn thraldom.

LODORI 93

CHAPTER VII.

Men oftentimes prepare a lot,
Which ere it finds them, is not what
Suits with their genuine station.

Shelley.

At the age of thirty-two, Lord Lodore re-
turned to England. It was subject of discus-
sion among his friends, whether this was to he ;i
merely temporary visit, or whether he w;
about to establish himself finally in his own
country. Meanwhile, he became the lion of the
day. As the reputed slave of the fair sex, he
found favour in their gentle eyes. Even bloom-
ing fifteen saw all that was romantic and win-
ning in his subdued and graceful manners, and

<J4 LODORE.

in the melancholy which dwelt in his dark eyes.
The chief fault found with him was, that he was
rather taciturn, and that, from whatever cause,
woman had apparently ceased to influence his
soul to love. He avoided intimacies among
them, and seemed to regard them from afar,
with observant but passionless eyes. Some
spoke of a spent volcano — others of a fertile
valley ravaged by storms, and turned into a
desert ; while many cherished the hope of re-
newing the flame, or of replanting flowers on
the arid soil.

Lord Lodore had just emancipated himself
from an influence, which had become the most
orievous slavery, from the moment it had ceased
to be a voluntary servitude. He had broken the
ties that had so long held him ; but this had
not been done without such difficulties and
struggles, as made freedom less delightful, from
the languor and regret that accompanied vic-
tory. Lodore had formed but one resolve,

LODOft!.. 95

which was not to entangle himself again in
unlawful pursuits, where the better energies of
his mind were to be spent in forging deceptions,
and tranquillizing the mind of a jealous and
unhappy woman. He entertained a vague wish
to marry, and to marry one whom his judgment,
rather than his love, should select ; — an unwise
purpose, good in theory, but very detective in
practice. Besides this new idea of marrying,
which he buried as a profound secret in his
own bosom, he wished to accustom himself to
the manners and customs of his own country,
as to enable him to enter upon public life. He
was fond of the country in England, and entered
with zeal upon the pleasures of the chace. He
liked the life led at the seats of the great, and
endeavoured to do his part in amusing the
around him.

Yet he did not feel one of them. Above all,
he did not feel within him the charm of life, the
glad spirit that looks on each returning day as
a blessing; and which, gilding every common

96 LODORE.

object with its own brightness, requires no lustre
unborrowed from itself. All tilings palled upon
Lodore. The light laughter and gentle voices
of women were vacant of attraction ; his sym-
pathy was not excited by the discussions or
pursuits of men. After striving for a whole
year to awaken in himself an interest for some
one person or thing, and finding all to be
" vanity," — towards the close of a season in
town, of extreme brilliancy and variety to com-
mon eyes — of dulness and sameness to his mor-
bid sense, he suddenly withdrew himself from
the haunts of men, and plunging into solitude,
tried to renovate his soul by self-communings,
and an intercourse with silent, but most elo-
quent, Nature.

Youth wasted ; affections sown on sand, bar-
ren of return ; wealth and station flung as weeds
upon the rocks; a name, whose "gold" was
" o'erdusted * by the inertness of its wearer; —
such were the retrospections that haunted his
troubled mind. He envied the ploughboy, who

LODORE. 1)7

whistled as lie went ; and the laborious cottager,
who each Saturday bestowed upon his family
the hard won and scanty earnings of the week.
He pined for an aim in life — a bourne — a neces-
sity, to give zest to his palled appetite, and ex-
citement to his satiated soul. It seemed to him
that he could hail poverty and care as blessings ;
and that the dearest gifts of fortune— youth,
health, rank, and riches— were disguised curses.
All these he possessed, and despised. Gnawing
discontent ; energy, rebuked and tamed into
mere disquietude, for want of a proper object,
preyed upon his soul. Where could a remedy
be found ? No " green spot'' of delight soothed
his memory ; no cheering prospect appeared in
view ; all was arid, gloomy, unsunned upon.

He had wandered into Wales. He was
charmed with the scenery and solitude about
Rhyaider Gowy, in Radnorshire, which lies
amidst romantic mountains, and in immediate
vicinity to a cataract of the Wye. He fixed
himself for some months in a convenient man-

VOL. I. F

98 LODORE.

sion, which he found to let, at a few miles
from that place. Here he was secure from un-
welcome visitors, or any communication with
the throng he had left. He corresponded with
no one, read no newspapers. He passed his
day, loitering beside waterfalls, clambering the
steep mountains, or making longer excursions
on horseback, always directing his course away
from high roads or towns. His past life had
been sufficiently interesting to afford scope for
reverie ; and as he watched the sunbeams as
thev climbed the hills at evening, or the shadows
of the clouds as they careered across the valleys,
his heart by turns mourned or rejoiced over its
freedom, and the change that had come over it
and stilled its warring passions.

The only circumstance that in the least en-
trenched upon his feeling of entire seclusion,
was the mention, not unfrequently made to him,
by his servants, of the " ladies at the farm."
The idea of these "ladies" at first annoyed
him ; but the humble habitation which they

LODORE. 99

had chosen — humble to poverty — impressed him
with the belief that, however the "ladies'1 might
awe-strike the Welsh peasantry, he should find
in them nothing that would impress him with
the idea of station. Two or three times, at the
distant sight of a bonnet, instead of the Welsh
hat, he had altered his course to avoid the
wearer. Once he had suddenly come on one
of these wonders of the mountains : she might
have passed for a very civilized kind of abigail ;
but, of course, she was one of the " ladies."

As Lodore Mas neither a poet nor a student,
he began at last to tire of loneliness. He was a
little ashamed when he remembered that he had
taken his present abode for a year : however, he
satisfied his conscience by a resolve to return to
it ; and began seriously to plan crossing the
country, to visit his sister in Essex. He was,
during one of his rides, deliberating on putting
this resolve into execution on the very next
morning, when suddenly he was overtaken by a
storm. The valley, through which his path

f 2

100 lodori:.

wound, was narrow, and the gathering clouds
over head made it dark as night : the light-
ning flashed with peculiar brightness ; and the
thunder, loud and bellowing, was re-echoed
by the hills, and reverberated along the sky in
terrific pealings. It was more like a continental
storm than any which Lodore had ever witnessed
in England, and imparted to him a sensation of
thrilling pleasure ; till, as the rain came down
in torrents, he began to think of seeking some
shelter, at least for his horse. Looking round
for this, he all at once perceived a vision of
white muslin beneath a ledge of rock, which
could but half protect the gentle wearer:
frightened she was, too, as a slight shriek tes-
tified, when a bright flash, succeeded instanta-
neously by a loud peal of thunder, bespoke the
presence of something like danger. Lodore's
habitual tenderness of nature rendered it no
second thought with him to alight and offer his
services ; and he was fully repaid when he saw
her, who hailed with gladness a protector,
though too frightened to smile, or scarcely to

LODORE, 101

speak. She was very young, and more beauti-
ful, Lodore was at once assured, than any thing
he had ever before beheld. Her fairness, increas-
ed by the paleness of terror, was even snowy ;
her hair, scarcely dark, enough for chesnut, too
dark for auburn, clustered in rich curls on her
brow ; her eyes were dark grey, long, and full of
expression, as they beamed from beneath their
deeply-fringed lids. But such description says
little; it was not the form of eye or the brow's
arch, correct and beautiful as these were, in
this lovely girl, that imparted her peculiar at-
traction ; beyond these, there was a radiance,
a softness, an angel look, that rendered her
countenance singular in its fascination ; an ex-
pression of innocence and sweetness ; a plead-
ing gentleness that desired protection; a glance
that subdued, because it renounced all victory ;
and this, now animated by fear, quickly
excited, in Lodore, the most ardent desire to
re-assure and serve her. She leant, as she
stood, against the rock — now hiding her face

102 LODORE.

with her hands — now turning her eyes to her
stranger companion, as if in appeal or disbelief;
while lie again and again protested that there
was no danger, and strove to guard her from
the rain, which still descended with violence.
The thunder died away, and the lightning soon
ceased to flash, but this continued; and while
the colour revisited the young giiTs cheek,
and her smiles, displaying a thousand dimples,
lighted up new charms, a fresh uneasiness
sprung up in her of how she could get home.
Her chau8sure, ill-fitted even for the moun-
tains, could not protect her for a moment from
the wet. Lodore offered his horse, and pledged
himself for its quietness, and his care, if she
could contrive to sit in the saddle. He lifted
her light form on to it ; but the high-bred
animal, beginning a little to prance, she threw
herself off into the arms of her new friend,
in a transport of terror, which Lodore could by
no means assuage. What was to be done ?
He felt, light as she was, that he could carry

LODORE. 103

her the short half-mile to her home; but this
could not be offered. The rain was now over;
and her only resource was to brave the humid
soil in kid slippers. With considerable diffi-
culty, half the journey was accomplished, when
they met the " lady v whom Lodorc had before
seen ; — really the maid in attendance, who had
come out to seek her young mistress, and to
declare that " my lady " was beside herself
with anxiety on her account.

Lodore still insisted on conducting his young
charge to her home ; and the next day it was
but matter of politeness to call to express his
hope that she had not suffered from her expo-
sure to the weather. He found the lovely girl,
fresh as the morning, with looks all light and
sweetness, seated beside her mother, a lady
whose appearance was not so prepossessing,
though adorned with more than the remains of
beauty. She at once struck Lodore as dis-
agreeable and forbidding. Still she was cor-
dial in her welcome, grateful for his kindness,

101 LODORE.

and so perfectly engrossed by the thought of,
and love for, her child, that Lodore felt his
respect and interest awakened.

An acquaintance, thus begun between the
noble recluse and the "ladies of the farm,"
proceeded prosperously. A month ago, Lodore
would not have believed that he should feel
glad at finding two fair off-shoots of London
fashion dwelling so near his retreat ; but even
if solitude had not rendered him tolerant, the
loveliness of the daughter might well perform
a greater miracle. In the mother, he found
good breeding, good nature, and good sense.
lie soon became almost domesticated in their
rustic habitation.

Lady Santerre was of humble birth, the
daughter of a solicitor of a country town. She
was handsome, and won the heart of Mr. San-
terre, then a minor, who was assisted by her
father in the laudable endeavour to obtain more
money than his father allowed him, The young
gentleman saw, loved, and married. His pa-

LODORE. 105

rents were furiously angry, and tried to illegal-
ize the match ; but he confirmed it when he
came of age, and a reconciliation with his
family never took place. Mr. Santerre hold
reversions, turned expectations into money, and
lived in the world. For ^ix years, his wife
bloomed in the gay parterre of fashionable
society, when her husband's father died. Pros-
perity was to dawn on this event : the new Sir
John went down to attend his father's funeral ;
thence to return to town, to be immersed in
recoveries, settlements, and law. He never re-
turned. Riding across the country to a neigh-
bour, his horse shyed, reared, and threw him.
His head struck against a fragment of stone :
a concussion of the brain ensued ; and a fortnight
afterwards, he was enclosed beside his father,
in the ancestral vault-

His widow was the mother of a daughter
only ; and her hopes and prospects died with
her husband. His brother, and heir, might
have treated her better in the sequel ; but he

tar

F H

106 LODORE.

was excessively irritated by the variety of debts,
and incumbrances, and lawsuits, he had to deal
with. He chose to consider the wife most to
blame, and she and her child were treated as
aliens. He allowed them two hundred a year,
and called himself generous. This was all (for
her father was not rich, and had a large family)
that poor Lady Santerre had to depend upon.
She struggled on for some little time, trying to
keep up her connexions in the gay world ; but
poverty is a tyrant, whose laws are more terrible
than those of Draco. Lady Santerre yielded,
retired to Bath, and fixed her hopes on her
daughter, whom she resolved should hereafter
make a splendid match. Her excessive beauty
promised to render this scheme feasible ; and
now that she was nearly sixteen, her mother
began to look forward anxiously. She had re-
tired to Wales this summer, that, by living with
yet stricter economy, she might be enabled,
during the winter, to put her plans into exe-
cution with greater ease.

LODORE. 107

Lord Lodore became intimate with the mother
and daughter, and his imagination speedily
painted both in the most attractive colours. Here
was the very being his heart had pined for— a
girl radiant in innocence and youth, the nursling,
so he fancied, of mountains, waterfalls, and soli-
tude ; yet endowed with all the softness and re-
finement of civilized society. Long forgotten
emotions awoke in his heart, and he gave him-
self up to the bewildering feelings that beset
him. Every thing was calculated to excite his
interest. The desolate situation of the mother,
devoted to her daughter only, and that daughter
fairer than imagination could paint, young,
gentle, blameless, knowing nothing beyond
obedience to her parent, and untaught in the
guile of mankind. It was impossible to see that
intelligent and sweet face, and not feel that to
be the first to impress love in the heart which it
mirrored, was a destiny which angels might
envy. How proud a part was his, to gift her
with rank, fortune, and all earthly blessing?,

108 LODOftE.

and to receive in return, gratitude, tenderness,
and unquestioning submission ! If love did not,
as thus he reasoned, show itself in the tyrant
guise it had formerly assumed in the heart of
Lodore, it was the more welcome a guest. It
spoke not of the miseries of passion, but offered
a bright view of lengthened days of peace and
contented ness. He was not a slave at the feet
of his mistress, but he could watch each gesture
and catch each sound of her voice, and say,
goodness and beauty are there, and I shall be
happy.

He found the lovely girl somewhat ignorant ;
but white paper to be written upon at will, is a
favourite metaphor among those men who have
described the ideal of a wife. That she had
talent beyond what he had usually found in wo-
men, he was delighted to remark. At first she
was reserved and shy. Little accustomed to
society, she sat beside her mother in something
of a company attitude ; her eyes cast down, her
lips closed. She was never to be found alone,

LODORE. 109

and a jeune persomie in France could scarcely
be more retired and tranquil. This accorded
better with Lodore's continental experience,
than the ease of English fashionable girls, and
he was pleased. He conversed little with Cor-
nelia until he had formed his determination, and
solicited her mother's consent to their union.
Then they were allowed to walk together, and
she gained on him, as their intimacy increased.
She was very lively, witty, and full of playful
fancy. Aware of her own deficiencies in educa-
tion, she was the first to laugh at herself, and to
make such remarks as showed an understand-
ing worth all the accomplishments in the world.
Lodore now really found himself in love, and
blessed the day that led him from among
the fair daughters of fashion to this child of
nature. His wayward feelings were to change
no more — his destiny was fixed. At thirty-four
to marry, to settle into the father of a family,
his hopes and wishes concentrated in a home,
adorned by one whose beauty was that of angels,

110 LODORE.

was a prospect that he dwelt upon each clay
with renewed satisfaction. Nothing in after
years could disturb his felicity, and the very
security with which he contemplated the future,
imparted a calm delight, at once new and grate-
ful to a heart, weary of storms and struggles,
and which, in finding peace, believed that it pos-
sessed the consummation of human happiness.

LODORE. Ill

CHAPTER VIII.

Hopes, what are they ? beads of morning-
Strung on slender blades of grass,
Or a spider's web adorning,
In a strait and treacherous pass.

WORDSWOBTH.

The months of July, August, and September had
passed away. Lord Lodore enjoyed, during the
two last, a singularly complacent state of mind.
He had come to Wales with worn-out spirits, a
victim to that darker species of ennui, which
colours with gloomy tints the future as well as
the present, and is the ministering angel of evil
to the rich and prosperous. He despised him-
self, contemned his pursuits, ami called all
vanity beneath the vivifying sun of heaven.

J12 LODORE.

Real misfortunes have worn the guise of bless-
ings to men so afflicted, but he was withdrawn
from this position, by a being who wore the out-
ward semblance of an angel, and from whom he
felt assured nothing but good could flow.

Cornelia Santerre was lovely, vivacious, witty,
and good-humoured ; yet strange to say, her new
lover was not rendered happy so much by the pre-
sence of these qualities, as by the promise which
they gave for the future. He loved her; he be-
lieved that she would be to the end of his life a
blessing and a delight ; yet passion was scarcely
roused in his heart ; it was M a sober certainty
of waking bliss," and a reasonable belief in the
continuance of this state, that made him, while
he loved her, regard her rather as a benefac-
tress than a mistress.

Benefactress is a strange word to use-, espe-
cially as her extreme youth was probably the
cause that more intimate sympathies did not unite
them, and why passion entered so slightly into
their intercourse. It is possible, so great was

LODORE. 113

the discrepancy of their age, and consequently
of their feelings and views of life, that Lodore
would never have thought of marrying Cor-
nelia, but that Lady Santerre was at hand to
direct the machinery of the drama. She in-
spired him with the wish to gift her angelic child
with the worldly advantages which his wife must
possess; to play a god-like part, and to lift into
prosperity and happiness, one who seemed des-
tined by fortune to struggle with adversity.
Lady Santerre was a worldly woman and an
oily flatterer ; Lodore had been accustomed to
feminine controul, and he yielded with docility
to her silken fetters.

The ninth of October was Cornelia's sixteenth
birthday, and on it she became the wife of Lord
Lodore. This event took place in the parish
church of Rhyaider Gowy, and it was communi-
cated to " the world" in the newspapers. Many
discussions then arose as to who Miss San-
terre coidd be. " The only daughter of the
late Sir John." The only late Sir John San-

114 LODORE.

terre remembered, was, in fact, the grandfather
of the bride, and the hiatus in her genealogy,
caused by her father's death before he had
been known as a baronet, puzzled every fashion-
able gossip. The whole affair, however, had
been forgotten, when curiosity was again
awakened in the ensuing month of March, by
an announcement in the Morning Post, of the
arrival of the noble pair at Mivarfs. Lord
Lodore had always rented a box at the King's
Theatre. It had been newly decorated at the
beginning of the season, and on the first Satur-
day in April all eyes turned towards it
as lie entered, having the loveliest, fairest,
and most sylph-like girl, that ever trod
dark earth, leaning on his arm. There was a
child-like innocence, a fascinating simplicity,
joined to an expression of vivacity and happi-
ness, in Lady Lodore's countenance, which im-
pressed at first sight, as being the completion
of feminine beauty. She looked as if no time
could touch, no ill stain her; artless affection

LODOIU. 115

and amiable dependence spoke in each grace-
ful gesture. Others might be beautiful, but
there was that in her, which seemed allied to
celestial loveliness.

Such was the prize Lord Lodore had won.
The new-married pair took up their residence
in Berkeley- square, and here Lady Santerre
joined them, and took possession of the apart-
ments appropriated to her use, under her
daughter's roof. All appeared bright on the
outside, and each seemed happy in each other.
Yet had any one cared to remark, they had
perceived that Lodore looked even more ab-
stracted than before his marriage. They had
seen, that, in the domestic coterie, mother
and daughter were familiar friends, sharing
each thought and wish, but that Lodore was
one apart, banished, or exiling himself from the
dearest blessings of friendship and love. There
might be no concealment, but also there
was no frankness between the pair. Neither
practised disguise, but there was no outpouring

11G LODORE.

of the heart — no *' touch of nature," which,
passing like an electric shock, made their souls
one. An insurmountable barrier stood between
Lodore and his happiness — between his love
and his wife's confidence; that this obstacle
was a shadow — undefined — formless — nothing
— vet every thing, made it trebly hateful, and
rendered it utterly impossible that it should be
removed.

The magician who had raised this ominous
phantom, was Lady Santerre. She was a clever
though uneducated woman : perfectly selfish,
soured with the world, vet clinging to it. To
make good her second entrance on its stage, she
believed it necessary to preserve unlimited sway
over the plastic mind of her daughter. If she
had acted with integrity, her end had been
equally well secured ; but unfortunately, she
was by nature framed to prefer the zig-zag to
the straight line; added to which, she was im-
perious, and could not bear a rival near her
throne. From the first, therefore, she exerted

LODOKE. 117

herself to secure her empire over Cornelia ; she
spared neither flattery nor artifice ; and, well
acquainted as she was with every habit and
turn of her daughter's mind, her task was com-
parativelv easy.

The fair girl had been brought up (ah ' how
different from the sentiments which Lodore had
thought to find the natural inheritance of the
mountain child !) to view society as the glass by
which she was to set her feelings, and to which
to adapt her conduct. She was ignorant, ac-
customed to the most frivolous employments,
shrinking from any mental exercise, so that
although her natural abilities were great, they
lay dormant, producing neither bud nor blos-
som, unless such might be called the elegance
of her appearance, and the charm of the softest
and most ingenuous manners in the world.
When her husband would have educated her
mind, and withdrawn her from the dangers of
dissipation, she looked on his conduct as tyran-
nical and cruel. She retreated from his manly

118 LODORE.

guidance, to the pernicious guardianship of
Lady Santerre, and she sheltered herself at her
side, from any effort Lodore might make for her
improvement.

Those who have never experienced a situa-
tion of this kind, cannot understand it ; the de-
tails appear trivial : there seems wanting but
one effort to push away the flimsy web, which,
after all, is rather an imaginary than real bond-
age. But the slightest description will bring it
home to those who have known it, and groaned
beneath a despotism the more intolerable, as it
could be less defined. Lord Lodore found
that he had no home, no dear single-hearted
bosom where he could find sympathy and to
which to impart pleasure. When he entered
his drawing-room with gaiety of spirit to im-
part some agreeable tidings, to ask his wife's
advice, or to propose some plan, Lady Santerre
was ever by her side, with her hard features and
canting falsetto voice, checking at once the
kindling kindness of his soul, and he felt that all

LODORE. 119

that lie should say would be turned from its
right road, by some insidious remark, and the
words he was about to speak died upon his lips.
When he looked forward through the day, and
would have given the world to have had his
wife to himself, and to have sought, in some
drive or excursion, for the pleasant unreserved
converse he sighed for, Lady Santerre must be
consulted ; and though she never opposed him,
she always carried her point in opposition to
his. Kis wishes were made light of, and he
was left to amuse himself, and to know that his
wife was imbibing the lessons of one, whom he
had learnt to despise and hate.

Lord Lodore cherished an ideal of what he
thought a woman ought to be ; but he had no
lofty opinion of women as he had usually found
her. He had believed that the germ of all the
excellencies which he esteemed was to be found
in Cornelia, and he found himself mistaken. He
had expected to find truth, clearness of spirit,
and complying gentleness, the adorning qualities

120 LODORE.

of the unsophisticated girl, and he found her
the willing disciple of one whose selfish and
artful character was in direct contradiction to
his own. Once or twice at the beginning, he
had attempted to withdraw his wife from this
sinister influence, but Lad} Lodore highly re-
suited any effort of this kind, and saw in it an
endeavour to make her neglect her fir>t and
dearest duties. Lodore, angry that the wishes
of another should be preferred to his, drew back
with disappointed pride; he disdained to en-
force by authority, that which he thought
ought to be yielded to love. The bitter sense
of wounded affections was not to be appeased
by knowing that, if he chose, he could com-
mand that, which was worthless in his eyes, ex-
cept as a voluntary gift.

And here his error began ; he had married one
so young, that her education, even if its founda-
tion had been good, required finishing, and who
as it was, had every thing to learn. During
the days of courtship he had looked forward

LODORE. 121

with pleasure to playing the tutor to his fair
mistress: but a tutor can do nothing without
authority, either open or concealed — a tutor
must sacrifice his own pursuits and immediate
pleasures, to study and adapt himself to the
disposition of his pupil. As has been said of
those who would acquire power in the state —
they must in some degree follow, if they would
lead, and it is by adapting themselves to the
humour of those they would command, that
they establish the law of their own will, or of
an apparent necessity. But Lodore understood
nothing of all this. He had been accustomed
to be managed by his mistress; he had been
yielding, but it was because she contrived to
make his will her own ; otherwise he was im-
perious: opposition startled and disconcerted
him, and he saw heartlessness in the want of
accommodation and compliance he met at home.
He had expected from Cornelia a girl's clinging
fondness, but that was given to her mother;
vol. I. G

122 LODORE.

nor did she feel the womanly tenderness, which
sees in her husband the safeguard from the ills
of life, the shield to stand between her and the
world, to ward off its cruelties:, a shelter from
adversity, a refuge when tempests were abroad.
How could she feel this, who, proud in youth
and triumphant beauty, knew nothing of, and
disbelieved the tales which sages and old wo-
men tell of the perils of life ? The world
looked to her a velvet strewn walk, canopied
from every storm — her husband alone, who en-
deavoured to reveal the reality of things to
her, and to disturb her visions, was the source
of any sorrow or discomfort. She was buoyed
up by the supercilious arrogance of youth ; and
while inexperience rendered her incapable of
entering into the feelings of her husband, she
displayed towards him none of that deference,
and yielding submission, which might reason-
ably have been expected from her youth, but
that her mother was there to claim them for

LODOKK. 123

herself, and to inculcate, as far as she could,
that while she was her natural friend, Lodon
was her natural enemy.

He, with strong pride and crushed affections,
gave himself up for a disappointed ma He
disdained to struggle with the sinister influence
of his mother-in-law ; he did not endeavour to
discipline and invigorate the facile disposition
of his bride. He had expected devotion, at-
tention, love ; and he scorned to complain or
to war against the estrangement that grew
up between them. Tf at any time he was im-
pelled by an overflowing heart to seek his fair
wife's side, the eternal presence of Ladv San-
terre chilled him at once; and to withdraw her
from this was a task difficult indeed to one who
could not forgive the competition admitted be-
tween them. At first he made one or two en-
deavours to separate them ; but the reception
his efforts met with galled his haughty soul ;
and while he cherished a deep and passionate
hatred for the cause, he grew to despise t

2

124 LODORE.

victim of her arts. He thought that he per-
ceived duplicity, low-though ted pride, and cold-
ness of heart, the native growth of the daughter
of such a mother. He yielded her up at once
to the world and her parent, and resolved to
seek, not happiness, but occupation elsewhere.
He felt the wound deeply, but he sought no
cure; and pride taught him to mask his sore-
ness of spirit by a studied mildness of manner,
which, being joined to cold indifference, and
frequent contradiction, soon begot a consider-
able degree of resentment, and even dislike on
her part. Her mother's well-applied flatteries
and the adulation of her friends were contrasted
with his halt-disguised contempt. The system
of society tended to increase their mutual es-
trangement. She embarked at once on the
stream of fashion ; and her whole time was
given up to the engagements and amusements
that flowed in on her on all sides ; while he —
one other regret added to many previous ones —
one other disappointment in addition to those

LODORE. 125

which already corroded his heart— bade adieu
to every hope of domestic felicity, and tried to
create new interests for himself, seeking, in pub-
lic affairs, for food for a mind eager for excite-
ment.

1-28 LODORE.

CHAPTER IX.

What are fears, but voices airy

VRiisp'ring harm, where harm is not ?

And deluding- the unwary,

Till the fatal bolt is shot ?

Wordsworth.

Loud Lodore was disgusted at the very
threshold of his new purpose. His long resi-
dence abroad prevented his ever acquiring the
habit of public speaking ; nor had he the re-
spect for human nature, nor the enthusiasm for
a party or a cause, which is necessary for one
who would make a figure as a statesman. His
sensitive disposition, his pride, which, when
excited, verged into arrogance ; his uncompro-
mising integrity, his disdain of most of his

lodoui:. 127

associates, his incapacity of yielding obedience,
rendered his short political career one of strug-
gle and mortification. M And this is life!" he
said ; " abroad, to mingle with the senseless
and the vulgar ; and at home, to find a — wife,
who prefers the admiration of fools, to the love
of an honest heart T1

Within a year after her marriage, Lady
Lodore gave birth to a daughter. This cir-
cumstance, which naturally tends to draw the
parents nearer, unfortunately in this instance
set them further apart. Lady Santerre had
been near, with so many restrictions and so
much interference, which though probably ne-
cessary, considering Cornelia's extreme youth,
yet seemed vexatious and impertinent to Lodore.
All things appeared to be permitted, except
those which he proposed. A drive, a ride, even
a walk, with him, was to be considered fatal ;
while, at the same time, Lady Lodore was
spending whole nights in heated rooms, and
even dancing. Her confinement was followed

128 lodoiu:.

by a long illness ; the child was nursed by a
stranger, secluded in a distant part of the
house; and during her slow recovery, the
young mother seemed scarcely to remember that
it existed. The love for children is a passion
often developed most fully in the second stage
of life. Lodore idolized his little offspring,
and felt hurt and angry when his wife, after it
had been in her room a minute or two, on the
first approach it made to a squall, ordered it to
be taken away. At the time, in truth, she was
reduced to the lowest ebb of weakness; but
Lodore, as men are apt to do, was slow to dis-
cern her physical suffering, while his cheeks
burnt with indignation, as she peevishly re-
peated the command that his child should go.

When she grew better this was not mended.
She was ordered into the country for air, at a
time when the little <nrl was suffering from
some infantine disorder, and could not be
moved. It was left with its nurses, but Lodore
remained also, and rather suffered his wife to

LODORE. 129

travel without him, so to demonstrate openly,
that he thought her treatment of her baby
unmotherly ; not that he expressed this senti-
ment, nor did Lady Lodore guess at it ; she
saw only his usual spirit of contradiction and
neglect, in his desertion of her at tins period.

The mother pressed with careless lips the
downy cheek of the little cherub, and departed ;
while Lodore passed most of his time in the
child's apartment, or, turning his library into a
nursery, it was continually with him there.
"• Here," he thought, " I have something to
live for, something to love. And even though
I am not loved in return, my heart's sacrifice
will not be repaid with insolence and contempt."
But when the infant began to show tokens of
recognition and affection, when it smiled and
stretched out its little hands on seeing him, and
crowed with innocent pleasure ; and still more,
when the lisped paternal name fell from its
roseate lips — the father repeated more empha-
tically, " Here is something that makes it

g 5

130 LODORE.

worth while to have been born — to live !" An
illness of the child overwhelmed him with
anxiety and despair. She recovered ; and he
thanked God, with a lively emotion of joy, to
whi< 'i he had long; been a stranger.

affection for his child augmented the an-
ncn- • re which he derived from his domestic cir-
cle. He had been hitherto sullenly yielding'on
any contest; but whatever whim, or whatever
plan, he formed with regard to his daughter, he
abided by unmoved, and took pleasure in ma-
nifesting his partiality for her. Lodore was by
nature a man of violent and dangerous passions,
added to which, his temper was susceptible to
irritability. He disdained to cope with the un-
due influence exercised by Lady Santerre over
his wife. He beheld in the latter, a frivolous,
childish puppet, endowed with the usual femi-
nine infirmities —

" The love of pleasure, and the love of sway;"

and destitute of that tact and tenderness of

LODORE. 131

nature which should teach her where to yield
and how to reign. He left her therefore to her
own devices, resolved only that he would not
give up a single point relative to his child, and
consequently, according to the weakness of
human nature, ever ready to find fault with
and prohibit all her wishes on the subject.

Cornelia, accustomed to be guided by her
mother's watchful artifices, and to submit to a
tyranny which assumed the guise of servitude,
felt only with the feelings implanted by her
parent. She was not, like Lady Santerre, heart-
less ; but cherished pride, the effect of per-
petual misrepresentation, painted her as such.
She looked on her husband as a man essentially
selfish — one who, worn out by passion, had
married her to beguile his hours during a visi-
tation of ennui, and incapable of the softness of
love or the kindness of friendship. On occasion
of his new conduct with regard to her child,
her haughty soul was in arms against him, and
something almost akin to hatred sprung up

132 LODORE.

within her. She resented his interference; she
believed that his object was to deprive her of
the consolation of her daughter's love, and that
his chief aim was to annoy and insult her. She
was jealous of her daughter with her husband,
of her husband with her daughter. If by some
chance a word or look passed that might have
softened the mutual sentiment of distrust, the
evil genius of the scene was there to freeze again
the genial current ; and any approach to kind-
ness, by an inexplicable but certain result, only
tended to place them further apart than before.
Three winters had passed since their mar-
riage, and the third spring was merging into
summer, while they continued in this state of
warlike neutrality. Any slight incident might
have destroyed the fictitious barriers erected by
ill-will and guile between them ; or, so preca-
rious was their state, any new event might
change petty disagreements into violent resent-
ment, and prevent their ever entertaining to-
wards each other those feelings which, but for

LODORE. 133

one fatal influence, would naturally have had
root between them. The third summer was
come. They were spending the commencement
of it in London, when circumstances occurred,
unanticipated by either, which changed materi-
ally the course of their domestic arrangements.

Lord Lodore returned home one evening at
a little after eleven, from a dinner-party, and
found, as usual, his drawing-room deserted —
Lady Lodore had gone to a ball. He had re-
turned in that humour to moralize, which we
so often bring from society into solitude ; and
he paced the empty apartments with impatient
step. " Home ! — yes, this is my home! I hail
hoped that gentle peace and smiling love would
be its inmates, that returning as now, from
those who excite my spleen and contempt, o\w
eye would have lighted up to welcome me, a
dear voice have thanked me for my return.
Home i a Tartar beneath his tent— a wild In-
dian in his hut, may speak of home — I have
none. Where shall I spend the rest of this

134 LODORE.

dull, deserted evening?" — for it may be supposed
that, sharing London habits, eleven o'clock was
to him but an evening hour.

He went into his dressing-room, and casting
his eyes on the table, a revulsion came over him,
a sudden shock — for there lay a vision, which
made his breath come thick, and caused the
blood to recede to his heart — a like vision has
had I same effect on many, though it took but
the i "obtrusive form of a little note — a note,
whose fold, whose seal, whose superscription,
were all once so familiar, and now so strange.
Time sensibly rolled back ; each event of the last
few years was broken off, as it were, from his life,
Leaving it as it had been ton years ago. He seized
the note, and then threw it from him. " It is a
mere mistake," he said aloud, while he felt,
even to the marrow of his bones, the thrill and
shudder as of an occurrence beyond the bounds
of nature. Yet still the note lay there, and
half as if to undeceive himself, and to set
witchcraft at nought, he again took it up — this

LODORE. 135

time in a less agitated mood, so that when tin-
well-known impression of a little foreign coro-
net on the seal met his eye, he became aware
that however unexpected such a sight might be,
it was in the moral course of things, and he
hastily tore open the epistle : it was written in
French, and was very concise. " I arrived in
town last nijjht," the writer said ; " I and my
son are about to join my husband in Paris. I
hear that you are married ; I hope to see you
and your lady before 1 leave London. "

After reading these few lines, Lord Lodore
remained for a considerable time lost in thought.
He tried to consider what he should do, but his
ideas wandered, as they sadly traced the past,
and pictured to him the present. Never did
life appear so vain, so contemptible, so odious a
thing as now, that he was reminded of the pas-
sions and sufferings of former days, which,
strewed at his feet like broken <dass, might
still wound him, though their charm and their

136 LODORE.

delight could never be renewed. He did not
go out that night ; indeed it seemed as if but a
minute had passed, when, lo! morning was
pouring her golden summer beams into his
room — when I «ady Lodore's carriage drove up ;
and early sounds in the streets told him that
night was gone and the morrow come.

That same day Lord Lodore requested Cor-
nelia to call with him on a Polish lady of rank,
with whom he had formerly been acquainted,
to whom he was under obligations. They went.
And what Lodore felt when lie stood with his
lovely wife before her, who for many by-gone
\ ears had commanded his fate, had wound him
to her will, through the force of love and wo-
man's wiles — who he knew could read every la-
tent sentiment of his soul, and yet towards whom
he was resolved now, and for ever in future, to
adopt the reserved manners of a mere acquaint-
ance— what of tremor or pain all this brought
to Lodore's bosom was veiled, at least beyond

LODORE. 137

Cornelia's penetration, who seldom truly ob-
served him, and who was now occupied by her
new acquaintance.

The lady had passed the bloom of youth,
and even mid life; she was verging on fifty,
but. she had every appearance of having been
transcendently beautiful. Her dark full orien-
tal eyes still gleamed from beneath her finely-
arched brows, and her black hair, un tinged by
any grizzly change, was gathered round her
head in such tresses as bespoke an admirable
profusion. Her person was tall and command-
ing: her manners were singular, for she min-
gled so strangely, stateliness and affability, dis-

•

dain and sweetness, that she seemed like a
princess dispensing the favour of her smile, or
the terror of her frown on her submissive sub-
jects ; her sweetest smiles were for Cornelia,
who yet turned from her to another object, who
attracted her more peculiar attention. It was
her son ; a youth inheriting all his mother's
beauty, added to the fascination of early man-

138 LODORE.

hood, and a frank and ingenuous address, which
his parent could never have possessed.

The party separated, apparently well pleased
with each other. Lady Lodore offered her ser-
vices, which were frankly accepted; and after
an hour spent together, they appointed to meet
again the next dav, when the ladies should
drive out together to shop and see sights.

They became not exactly intimate, yet upon
familiar terms. There was a dignity and even
a constraint in the Countess Lyzinskfs manner
that was a bar to cordiality; hut they met
daily, and Lady Lodore introduced her new
friend everywhere. The Countess said that mo-
tives of curiosity had induced her to take this
country in her way to Paris. Her wealth was
immense, and her rank among the first in her
own country. The Russian ambassador treated
her with distinction, so that she gained facile
and agreeable entrance into the highest society.
The young Count Casimir was an universal
favourite, but his dearest pleasure was to attend

LODORE. 139

upon Lady Lodorc, who readily offered to

school him on his entrance into the English
world. They were pretty exactly the same age;
Casimir was somewhat the junior, yet he looked
the elder, while the lady, accustomed to greater
independence, took the lead in their intercourse,
and acted the monitress to her docile scholar.

Lord Lodore looked on, or took a part, in
what was passing around him, with a caprice
perfectly unintelligible. With the Countess he
was always gentle and obliging, but reserved.
While she treated him with a coldness resem-
bling disdain, yet whose chiefest demonstration
was silence. Lodore never altered towards her;
it was with regard to her son that he displayed
his susceptible temper. He took pains to pro-
cure for him every proper acquaintance ; he
was forward in directing him ; he watched over
his mode of passing his time, he appeared to be
interested in every thing he did, and yet to
hate him. His demeanour towards him was
morose, almost insulting. Lodore, usually so

140 LODORE.

forbearing and courteous, would contradict and
silence him, as if he had been a child or a
menial. It required all Casimir's deference for
one considerably his senior, to prevent him from
resenting openly this style of treatment ; it re-
quired all the fascination of Lady Lodore to
persuade him to encounter it a second time.
Once he had complained to her, and she remon-
strated with her husband. His answer was to
reprimand her for listening to the impertinence
of the stripling. She coloured angrily, but did
not reply. (Old and polite to each other, the
noble pair were not in the habit of disputing.
Lady Santerre guarded against that. Any
thing as familiar as a quarrel might have pro-
duced a reconciliation, and with that a better
understanding of each other's real disposition.
The disdain that rose in Cornelia's bosom on
this taunt, fostered by conscious innocence, and
a sense of injustice, displayed itself in a scorn-
ful smile, and by an augmentation of kind-
ness towards Casimir. He was now almost

LODORE. 141

domesticated at her house ; he attended her in
the morning, hovered round her during the
evening ; and she, given up to the desire of
pleasing, did not regard, did not even see, the
painful earnestness with which Lord Lodore
regarded them. His apparent jealousy, if she
at all remarked it, was but a new form of sel-
fishness, to which she was not disposed to give
quarter. Yet any unconcerned spectator might
have started to observe how, from an obscure
corner of the room, Lodore watched every step
they took, every change of expression of face
during their conversation ; and then approach-
ing and interrupting them, endeavoured to
carry Count Casimiraway with him; and when
thwarted in this, dart glances of such indigna-
tion on the youth, and of scorn upon his wife,
as might have awoke a sense of danger, had
cither chanced to see the fierce, lightning-like
passions written in those moments on his coun-
tenance, as letters of fire and menace traced
upon the prophetic wall.

142 LODORE.

The Countess appeared to observe him in-
deed, and sometimes it seemed as if she re-
garded the angry workings of his heart with
malicious pleasure. Once or twice she had
drawn near, and said a few words in her native
language, on which he endeavoured to stifle
each appearance of passion, answering with a
smile, in a low calm voice, and retiring, left,
as it were, the field to her. Lady Santerre also
had remarked his glances of suspicion or fury ;
they were interpreted into new sins against her
daughter, and made with her the subject of
ridicule or bitter reproach.

Lord Lodore was entirely alone. To no one
human being could he speak a word that in the
least expressed the violence of his feelings.
Perhaps the only person with whom he felt
the least inclined to overflow in confidence, was
the Countess Lyzinski. But he feared her : he
feared the knowledge she possessed of his cha-
racter, and the power she had once exercised to
rule him absolutely ; the barrier between them

LODORE. 143

must be insuperable, or the worst results would
follow: he redoubled bis own cautious reserve,
and bore patiently the proud contempt which
she exhibited, resolved not to yield one inch in
the war he waged with his own heart, with re-
gard to her. lUit he was alone, and the soli-
tude of sympathy in which he lived, gave force
and keenness to all his feelings. Had they eva-
porated in words, half their power to wound had
been lost ; as it was, there was danger in his
meditations, and each one in collision with him
had occasion to dread that any sudden overflow
of stormy rage would be the more violent for
having been repressed so long.

One day the whole party, with the exception
of Ladv Santerre, dined at the house of th<
Russian ambassador. As Lord and Ladv
Lodore proceeded towards their destination, he,
with pointed sarcasm of manner, requested her
to be less marked in her attentions to Count
Casimir. The unfounded suspicions of a lover
may please as a proof of love, but those of a.

144 LODORE.

husband, who thus claims affections which lie has
ceased to endeavour to win, are never received
except as an impertinence and an insult. Those
of Lord Lodore appeared to his haughty wife
but a new form of cold-hearted despotism,
checking her pleasures whencesoever they might
arise. She replied by a bitter smile, and after-
wards still more insultingly, by the display of
kindness and partiality towards the object of
her husband's dislike. Her complete sense of
innocence, roused to indignation, by the injury
she deemed offered to it, led her thus to sport
with feelings, which, had she deigned to re-
mark, she might have seen working with vol-
cano-power in the breast of Lodore.

The ladies retired after dinner. They
gathered together in groups in the drawing-
room, while Lady Lodore, strange to say, sat
apart from all. She placed herself on a distant
sopha,apparentlv occupied by examining various
specimens of bijouterie, nic-nacs of all kinds,
which she took up one after the other, from the

LODORE. 145

table near her. One hand shaded her eyes as
she continued thus to amuse herself. She was
not apt to be so abstracted ; as now, that intent
on self-examination, or self-reproach, or on
thoughts that wandered to another, she forgot
where she was, and by whom surrounded. She
did not observe the early entrance of several
gentlemen from the dining-room, nor remark a
kind of embarrassment which sat upon their
features, spreading a sort of uncomfortable
wonder among the guests. The first words that
roused her, were addressed to her by her hus-
band : " Your carriage waits, Cornelia ; will
you come P'1

" So early ?" she asked.

" I particularly wish it," he replied.

" You can go, and send them back for me —
and yet it is not worth while, we shall see most
of the people here at Lady C 's to night."

She glanced round the room, Casimir was not
there ; as she passed the Countess Lyzinski, she
was about to ask her whether they should meet

vol. i. H

146 LODORE.

again that evening, when she caught the lady'a
eye fixed on her husband, meeting and returning
a look of his. Alarm and disdain were painted on
her face, and added to this, a trace of feeling so
peculiar, so full of mutual understanding, that
Lady Lodore was filled with no agreeable emo-
tion of surprise. She entered the carriage, and
the reiterated " Home !"" of Lord Lodore, pre-
vented her intended directions. Both were
silent during their short drive. She sat ab-
sorbed in a variety of thoughts, not one of
which led her to enter into conversation with
her companion ; they were rather fixed on her
mother, on the observations she should make to,
and the conjectures she should share with, her.
She became anxious to reach home, and re-
solved at once to seek Lady Santerre's advice
and directions by which to regulate her conduct
on this occasion.

LODORE. 147

CHAPTER X.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns the water, or but writes in dust.

Bacon.

They arrived in Berkeley- square. Lady Lo-
clore alighted, and perceived with something of
a beating heart, that her husband followed her,
as she passed on to the inner drawing-room.
Lady Santerre was not there. Taking a letter
from the table, so to give herself the appearance
of an excuse for having entered a room she was
about immediately to quit, she was going, when
Lodore, who stood hesitating, evidently desirous
of addressing her, and yet uncertain how to

h 2

148 LODORE.

begin, stopped her by speaking her name,
"Cornelia!"

She turned — she was annoyed ; her conscience
whispered what was in all probability the sub-
ject to which her attention was to be called.
Her meditations in the drawing-room of the
Russian Ambassador, convinced her that she
had, to use the phrase of the day, flirted too
much with Count Casimir, and she had in-
wardly resolved to do so no more. It was par-
ticularly disagreeable therefore, that her hus-
band should use authority, as she feared that
he was about to do, and exact from his wife's
obedience, what she was willing to concede to
her own sense of propriety. She was resolved
to hear as little as she could on the subject, and
stood as if in haste to go. His faltering voice
betrayed how much he felt, and once or twice
it refused to frame the words he desired to
utter: how different was their import from that
expected by his impatient auditress .'

LODORE. HO

" Cornelia,11 said he, at length, " can you
immediately, and at once — this very night — pre-
pare to quit England ?"

" Quit England ! Why '—whither T* she ex-
claimed.

" I scarcely know," replied Lodore, " nor is
it of the slightest import. The world is wide,
a shelter, a refuge can be purchased any where
— and that is all I seek."

The gaming table, the turf, loss of fortune,
were the ideas naturally conveyed into the
lady's mind by this reply. " Is all — every
thing gone — lost ?" she asked.

11 My honour is,11 he answered, with an effort.
" and the rest is of little worth."

He paused, and then continued in a low but
distinct voice, as if every word cost him a strug-
gle, yet as if he wished each one to be fraught
with its entire meaning to his hearer ; " I can-
not well explain to you the motives of my
sudden determination, nor will I complain of
the part you have had in bringing on this catas-

150 LODORE.

trophe. It is over now. No power on earth —
no heavenly power can erase the past, nor
change one iota of what, but an hour ago, did
not exist, but which now exists ; altering all
things to both of us for ever ; I am a dishonour-
ed man.1'

" Speak without more comment,11 cried Lady
Lodore ; "for Heaven's sake explain — I must
know what you mean.'1

" I have insulted a gentleman,1' replied her
husband, '* and I will yield no reparation. I
have disgraced a nobleman by a blow, and I
will offer no apology, could one be accepted —
and it could not ; nor will I give satisfaction.11

Lady Lodore remained silent. Her thoughts
speedily ran over the dire objects which her hus-
band's speech presented. A quarrel — she too
readily guessed with whom — a blow, a duel ; her
cheek blanched — yet not so ; for Lodore refused
to fight. In spite of the terror with which an an-
ticipated rencontre had filled her, the idea of
cowardice in her husband, or the mere accusa-

LODORE. 151

tion of it, brought the colour back to her face.
She felt that her heedlessness had given rise to
all this harm ; but again she felt insulted that
doubts of her sentiments or conduct should be
the occasion of a scene of violence. Both re-
mained silent. Lodore stood leaning on tin-
mantelpiece, his cheek flushed, agitation be-
traying itself in each gesture, mixed with a re-
solve to command himself. Cornelia had ad-
vanced from the door to the middle of the
room; she stood irresolute, too indignant and
too fearful to ask further explanation, yet
anxious to receive it. Still he hesitated. He
was desirous of finding some form of woi\U
which might convey all the information that it
was necessary she should receive, and yet con-
ceal all that he desired should remain untold.

At last he spoke. " It is unnecessary to
allude to the irretrievable past. The future is
not less unalterable for me. I will not fiidn
with, nor apologize to, the boy I have insulted ;
I must therefore fly — fly my country and the

152 LODORE. .

face of man ; go where the name of Lodore
will not be synonymous with infamy — to an
island in the east — to the desert wilds of Ame-
rica— it matters not whither. The simple ques-
tion is, whether you are prepared on a sudden
to accompany me ? I would not ask this of your
generosity, but that, married as we are, our des-
tinies are linked, far beyond any power we pos-
sess to sunder them. Miserable as my future
fortunes will be, far other than those which I
invited you but four years ago to share, you are
better off incurring the worst with me, than you
could be, struggling alone for a separate ex-
istence."

" Pardon me, Lodore," said Cornelia, some-
what subdued by the magnitude of the crisis
brought about, she believed, however involun-
tarily by herself, and by the sadness that, as he
spoke, filled the dark eyes of her companion
with an expression more melancholy than tears ;
" pardon me, if I seek for further explanation.
Your antagonist" (they neither of them ventured

T.ODORK. 153

to speak a name, which hung on the lip-* of
both) " is a mere boy. Your refusal to fight with
him results of course from this consideration ;
while angry, and if I must allude to so distaste-
ful a falsehood, while unjust suspicion prevent
your making him fitting and most due conces-
sions. Were the occasion less terrible, I might
disdain to assert my own innocence ; but as it
is, I do most solemnly declare, that Count
asimir

" I ask no question on that point, but simply
wish to know whether you will accompany me,"
interrupted Lodore, hastily ; " the rest I am
sorry for — but it is over. You, my poor girl,
though in some measure the occasion, and alto-
gether the victim, of this disaster, can exer-
cise no controul over it. No foreign noble
would accept the most humiliating submissions
as compensation for a blow, and this urchin
shall never receive from me the shadow of any.1''

" Is there no other way?" asked Cornelia.

" Not any," replied Lodore, while his agi-

h 5

154 LODORE.

tation increased, and his voice grew tremulous ;
" No consideration on earth could arm me
against his life. One other mode there is. I
might present myself as a mark for his ven-
geance, with a design of not returning his fire,
but I am shut out even from this resource.
And this," continued Lodore, losing as he
spoke, all self-command, carried away by the
ungovernable passions he had hitherto sup-
pressed, and regardless, as he strode up and
down the room, of Cornelia, who half terrified
had sunk into a chair; "this — these are the
result of mv crimes — such, from their conse-
quences, I now term, what by courtesy I have
hitherto named my follies — this is the end !
Bringing- into frightful collision those who are

© © ©

bound by sacred ties — changing natural love
into unnatural, deep-rooted, unspeakable hate
— arming blood against kindred blood — and

© ©

making the innocent a parricide. O Theodora,
what have you not to answer for !"

Lady Lodore started. The image he pre-

LODORE. 155

sented was too detestable. She repressed Ikt
emotions, and assuming that air of disdain,
which we are so apt to adopt to colour more
painful feelings, she said, " This sounds very
like a German tragedy, being at once disagree-
able and inexplicable."

" It is a tragedy,'' he replied; " a tragedy
brought now to its last dark catastrophe.
Casimir is my son. We may neither of us
murder the other ; nor will I, if again brought
into contact with him, do other than chastise
the insolent boy. The tiger is roused within
me. You have a part in this.""

A flash of anger glanced from Cornelia 'a
eyes. She did not reply — she rose — she quitted
the room — she passed on with apparent com-
posure, till reaching the door of her mother's
chamber, she rushed impetuously in. Overcome
with indignation, panting, choked, she threw
herself into her arms, saying, " Save me !" A
violent fit of hysterics followed.

At first Lady Lodore could only speak of

156 LODORE.

the injury and insult she had herself suffered;
and Lady Santerre, who by no means wished
to encourage feelings, which might lead to vio-
lence in action, tried to soothe her irritation.
But when allusions to Lodore's intention of
quitting England and the civilized world for
ever, mingled with Cornelia's exclamations, the
affair asumed a new aspect in the wary lady's
eyes. The barbarity of such an idea excited her
utmost resentment. At once she saw the full ex-
tent of the intended mischief, and the risk she in-
curred of losing the reward of years of suffer-
ing and labour. When an instantaneous depar-
ture was mentioned, an endless, desolate jour-
nev, which it was doubtful whether she should
be admitted to share, to be commenced that
very night, she perceived that her measures to
prevent it must be promptly adopted. The
chariot was still waiting which was to have con-
veyed Lord and Lady Lodore to their assembly ;
dressed as she was for this, without preparation,
she hurried her daughter into the carriage, and

LODORK. 137

bade the coachman drive to a villa they rented
at Twickenham ; leaving, in explanation, these
few lines addressed to her son-in-law.

" The scene of this evening has had an
alarming effect upon Cornelia. Time will
soften the violence of her feelings, but some im-
mediate step was necessary to save, I verily be-
lieve, her life. I take her to Twickenham, and
will endeavour to calm her : until I shall have
in some measure succeeded, I think you had
better not follow us ; but let us hear from you ;
for although my attention is so painfully en-
grossed by my daughter's sufferings, I am dis-
tressed on your account also, and shall continue
very uneasy until I hear from you.
" Friday Evening"

Lady Santerre and her daughter reached
Twickenham. Lady Lodore went to bed, and
assisted by a strong composing draught, ad-
ministered by her mother, her wrongs and her

168 LODORE.

anger were soon hushed in profound sleep.
Night, or rather morning, was far spent before
this occurred, so that it was late in the after-
noon of the ensuing <Jay before she awoke,
and recalled to hef memory the various con-
flicting sentiments which had occupied her pre-
vious to her repose.

During the morning, Lady Santerre had des-
patched a servant to Berkelev-square, to sum-
mon her daughter's peculiar attendants. He
now brought back the intelligence that Lord

CD O

Lodore had departed for the continent, about
three bouts after his wife had quitted his
house. Hut to this lie added tidings of another
circumstance, for which both ladies were totally
unprepared. Cornelia had entered the car-
riage the preceding night, without spending
one thought on the sleeping cherub in the nur-
sery. .What was her surprise and indigna-
tion, when she heard that her child and its at-
tendant formed a part of his lordship's travel-
ling suite. The mother's first impulse was to

LODORE. i5l.)

follow her offspring ; but this was speedily ex-
changed for a bitter sense of wrong, aversion
to her husband, and a resolve not to yield one
point, in the open warfare thus declared by
him.

160 LODORK.

CHAPTER XL

Amid two seas, on one small point of land,
Wearied, uncertain, and amazed, we stand ;
On either side our thoughts incessant turn,
Forward we dread, and looking back we mourn.

Prior.

Accustomed to obev the more obvious laws of
necessity, those whose situation in life obliges
them to earn their daily bread, are already
broken in to the yoke of fate. But the rich
and great are vanquished more slowly. Their
time is their own ; as fancy bids them, they can
go east, west, north, or south ; they wish, and
accomplish their wishes; and cloyed by the
too easy attainment of the necessaries, and even
of the pleasures of life, they fly to the tortures

LODORE. 1G1

of passion, and to the labour of overcoming the
obstacles that stand in the way of their for-
bidden desires, as resources against ennui and
satiety. Reason is lost in the appetite for ex-
citement, and a kind of unnatural pleasure
springs from their severest pains, because thus
alone are they roused to a full sense of their
faculties; thus alone is existence and its pur-
poses brought home to them.

In the midst of this, their thoughtless career,
the eternal law which links ill to ill, is at hand
to rebuke and tame the rebel spirit ; and such
a tissue of pain and evil is woven from their
holiday pastime, as checks them midcourse,
and makes them feel that they are slaves. The
young are scarcely aware of this ; they delight
to contend with Fate, and laugh as she clanks
their chains. But there is a period — sooner or
later comes to all — when the links envelop them,
the bolts are shot, the rivets fixed, the iron
enters the flesh, the soul is subdued, and they
fly to religion or proud philosophy, to seek for

162 LODORE.

an alleviation, which the crushed spirit can
no longer draw from its own resources.

This hour ! this fatal hour ! How many can
point to the shadow on the dial, and say, "Then
it was that I felt the whole weight of my hu-
manity, and knew myself to be the subject of
an unvanquishable power !" This dark moment
had arrived for Lodore. He had spent his
youth in passion, and exhausted his better na-
ture in a Btrtiggle for, and in the enjoyment of,
pleasure. lie found disappointment, and de-
sired change. It came at his beck. He mar-
ried, lie was not satisfied ; but still he felt
that it was because lie did not rouse himself,
that the bonds sate no heavily upon him. He
was enervated. He sickened at the idea of the
struggle it would require to cast off his fetters,
and he preferred adapting his nature to endure
their weight. But he believed that it was only
because he did not raise his hand, nor determine
on one true effort, that he was thus enslaved.
And now his hand was raised — the effort made ;

LODORE. 163

but no change ensued ; and he felt that there
was no escape from the inextricable bonds that
fastened him to misery.

He had believed that he did right in intro-
ducing his wife to the Countess Lyzinski. He
felt that he could not neglect this lady ; and
such was her rank, that any affectation of a
separate acquaintance would invite those obser-
vations which he deprecated. It was, after all,
matter of trivial import that he should be the
person to bring them acquainted. Moving in
the same circles, they must meet — they might
clash : it was better that they should be on
friendly terms. He did not foresee the inti-
macy that ensued ; and still less, that bis own
violent passions would be called into action.
That they were so, was, to the end, a mysterv
even to himself, He no longer loved the
Countess; and, in the solitude of his chamber,
he often felt his heart yearn towards the noble
youth, her son; but when they met — when
Cornelia spent her blandest smiles upon him,

164 lodori:.

and when the exquisitely beautiful countenance
of Casimir became lighted up with gladness
and gratitude, a fire of rage was kindled in his
heart, and he could no more command himself,
than can the soaring flames of a conflagration
bend earthward. He felt ashamed ; but new
fury sprung from this very sensation. For
worlds, he would not have his frenzy pried into
by another ; and yet he had no power to con-
troul its manifestation. His wife expostulated
with him concerning Casimir, and laughed his
rebuke to scorn. But she did not read the tu-
mult of unutterable jealousy and hate, that
slept within his breast, like an earthquake be-
neath the soil, the day before a city falls.

All tended to add fuel to this unnatural
flame. His own exertions to subdue its fierce-
ness but kindled it anew. Often he entered
the same room with the young Count, believing
that he had given his suspicions to the winds
— that he could love him as a son, and rejoice
with a father's pride in the graces of his figure

LODORE. 1G5

and the noble qualities of his mind. For a feu-
seconds the fiction endured : he felt a pang — it
was nothing — gone; it would not return again:
— another ! was he for ever to be thus tor-
tured ? And then a word a look, an appear-
ance of slighting him on the part of Casimir,
an indiscreet smile on Cornelia's lips, would at
once set a-light the whole devastating blaze.
The Countess alone had any power over him ;
but though he yielded to her influence, he was
the more enraged that she should behold his
weakness ; and that while he succeeded in main-
taining an elevated impassibility with regard to
herself, his heart, with all its flaws and poverty
of purpose, should, through the ill-timed inter-
ference of this boy, be placed once more naked
in her hand.

Such a state of feeling, where passion com-
bated passion, while reason was forgotten in the
strife, was necessarily pregnant with ruin. The
only safety was in flight ; — and Lodore would
have flown — he would have absented himself

166 LODORE.

until the cause of his sufferings had departed —
but that, more and more, jealousy entered into
his feelings — a jealousy, wound up by the pecu-
liarity of his situation, into a sensitiveness that
bordered on insanity, which saw guilt in a
smile, and overwhelming, hopeless ruin, in the
simplest expression of kindness. Cornelia her-
self was disinclined to quit London, and tena-
cious pride rendered him averse to proposing it,
since he could frame no plausible pretext for his
change of purpose, and it had been previously
arranged that they should remain till the end of
July. The presence of the Countess Lyzinski
was a tie to keep her; and to have pleaded his
feelings with regard to Casimir, could he have
brought himself so to do, would probably have
roused her at once into rebellion. There was
no resource ; he must bear, and also he must
forbear; — but the last was beyond his power,
and his attempt at the first brought with it de-
struction. In the last instance, at the Russian
Ambassador's, irritated by Cornelia's tone of

LODORK. 167

defiance, and subsequent levity, he levelled a
scornful remark at the guiltless and unconscious
offender. Casimir had endured his arrogance
and injustice long. He knew of no tic, no re-
spect due, beyond that which youth owes to
maturer years; yet the natural sweetness of his
disposition inclined him to forbearance, until
now, that surrounded by his own countrymen
and by Itussians, it became necessary that he
should assert himself. He replied with haugh-
tiness ; Lodore rejoined with added insult ; —
and when again Casimir retorted, he struck
him. The young noble's eyes flashed fire:
several gentlemen interposed between them ; —
and yielding to the expediency of the moment,
the Pole, with admirable temper, withdrew.

Humiliated and dismayed, but still burning
with fury, Lodore saw at once the consequences
of his angry transport. With all the impetu-
osity of his fiery spirit, he resolved to quit at
once the scene in which he had played his part
so ill. There was no other alternative. The

1G8 LODORE.

most frightful crimes blocked up every other
outlet : this was his sole escape, and he must
seize on it without delay. Lady Lodore had
not even deigned to answer his request that she
should accompany him ; and her mother's note
appeared the very refinement of insolence. They
abandoned him. They left the roof from which
he was about to exile himself, even before he
had quitted it, as if in fear of contamination
during his brief delay. Thus he construed
their retreat ; and worked up, as he was, almost
to madness, he considered their departure as
the commencement of that universal ban, which
for ever, hereafter, was to accompany his name.
It opened anew the wound his honour had sus-
tained ; and he poured forth a vow never more
to ally himself in bonds of love or amity with
one among his kind.

His purpose was settled, and he did not post-
pone its execution. Post-horses were ordered,
and hasty preparations made, for his departure.
Alone, abandoned, disgraced, in another hour

LODoni;. 169

he was to quit his home, his wife, all that en-
dears existence, for ever : yet the short interval
that preceded his departure hung like a long-
drawn day upon him ; and time seemed to make
a full stop, at a period when he would have
rejoiced had it leaped many years to come.
The heart's prayer in agony did not avail : he
was still kept lingering, when a knocking at the
door announced a visitor, who, at that late hour,
could come for one purpose only. Lord Lodore
ordered himself to be denied, and Count Casi-
mir's second departed to seek him elsewhere.
( old dew-drops stood on Lodore's brow as he
heard this gentleman parley in a foreign accent
with the servant ; trying, doubtless, to make
out where it was likely that he should meet
with him : the door closed at last, and he
listened to the departing steps of his visitor,
who could scarcely have left the square, be-
fore his travelling chariot drove up. And now,
while final arrangements were making, with a
heart heavy from bitter self-condemnation, he
vol. i. i

170 LODORE.

visited the couch of his sleeping daughter, once
more to gaze on her sweet face, and for the
last time to bestow a father's blessing; on her.
The early summer morning was abroad in the
sky ; and as he opened her curtains, the first
sun-beam played upon her features. He stooped
to kiss her little rosy lips : — " And I leave this
spotless being to the blighting influence of that
woman !" His murmurs disturbed the child's
slumbers : she woke, and smiled to see her
father ; and then insisted upon rising, as he was
up, and it was day.

" But I am come to say good-bye, sweet,11 he
said ; " I am going a long journey."

" O take me with you !" cried the little girl,
springing up, and fastening her arms round
his neck. He felt her soft cheek prest to his;
her hands trying to hold fast, and to resist,
his endeavours to disengage them. His heart
warmed within him. " For a short distance I
may indulge myself,11 he said, and he thought
how her prattle would solace his darker cares,

LODORE. 171

during his road to Southampton. So, causing her
attendant to make speedy preparation, he took
her in the carriage with him ; and her infantine
delight so occupied him, that he scarcely re-
membered his situation, or what exactly he was
doing, as he drove for the last time through
the lightsome and deserted streets of the metro-
polis.

And now he had quitted these ; and the
country, in all its summer beauty, opened
around him — meadows and fields with their
hedge-rows, tufted groves crowning the up-
lands, and " the blue sky bent over all." "From
these they cannot banish me," he thought;" in
spite of dishonour and infamy, the loveliness of
nature, and the freedom of my will, still are
mine: — and is this all?" — his child had sunk
to sleep, nestled close in his arms ; " Ah ! what
will these be to me, when I have lost this trea-
sure, dearest of all ? — yet why lose her ?" This
question, when it first presented itself to him.
he put aside as one that answered itself — to de-

i 2

172 LODORE.

prive a mother of her child were barbarity be-
yond that of savages; — but again and again it
came across him, and he began to reason with
it, and to convince himself that he should be
unjust towards himself in relinquishing this last
remaining blessing. His arguments were false,
his conclusions rash and selfish ; but of this he
was not aware. Our several minds, in reflecting
to our judgments the occurrences of life, are
like mirrors of various shapes and hues, so that
we none of us perceive passing objects with ex-
actly similar optics ; and while all pretend to
regulate themselves by the quadrant of justice,
the deceptive medium through which the reality
is viewed, causes our ideas of it to be at once
various and false. This is the case in imma-
terial points; how much more so, when self-
love magnifies, and passion obscures, the glass
through which we look upon others and our-
selves. The chief task of the philosopher is to
purify and correct the intellectual prism ; — but
Lodore was the reverse of a philosopher ; and

LODORE. 173

the more he gazed and considered, the more
imperfect and distorted became his perception.

To act justly by ourselves and others, is the
aim of every well-conditioned mind : for the
sight of pain in our fellow-creatures, and the
sense of self-condemnation within ourselves, is
fraught with a pang from which we would wil-
lingly escape ; and every heart not formed of
the coarsest materials is keenly alive to such
emotions. Lodore resolved to judge calmly, and
he reviewed coolly, and weighed (he believed)
impartially, the various merits of the question.
He thought of Lady Santerre's worldliness, her
vulgar ambition, her low-born contempt for all
that is noble and elevating in human nature.
He thought of Cornelia's docility to her mother's
lessons, her careless disregard of the nobler
duties of life, of her frivolity and unfeeling
nature : — then, almost against his will, his own
many excellencies rose before him ; — his lofty
aspirations, his self-sacrifice for the good of
others, the affectionateness of his disposition.

/

174 LODORE.

his mildness, his desire to be just and kind to
all, his willingness to devote every hour of the
day, and every thought of his mind, to the well-
bringing-up of his daughter : a person must be
strangely blind who did not perceive that, as
far as the child was concerned, she would be
far better off with him.

And then, in another point of view : Lady
Lodore had her mother — and she had the
world. She had not only beauty, rank, and
wealth ; but she had a taste for enjoying the
advantages yielded by these on the common soil
of daily life. He cared for nothing in the wide

J O

world — he loved nothing but this little child.
He would willingly exchange for her the far

greater portion of his fortune, which Lady
Lodore should enjoy ; reserving for himself
such a pittance merely as would suffice for his
own and his daughter's support. He had nei-
ther home, nor friends, nor youth, nor taintless
reputation ; nor any of all the blessings of life,
of which Cornelia possessed a superabundance.

LODORE. 17-")

Her child was as nothing in the midst of
these. She had left her without a sigh, even
without a thought ; while but to imagine
the moment of parting was a dagger to her
father's heart. What a fool he had been to
hesitate so long — to hesitate at all ! There slit-
was, this angel of comfort ; her little form was
cradled in his arms, he felt her soft breath upon
his hand, and the regular heaving of her bosom
responded to the beatings of his own heart ;
her golden, glossy hair, her crimsoned cheek,
her soft, round limbs ; — all this matchless
" bower of flesh," that held in the budding soul,
and already expanding affections of this earthly
cherub, was with him. And had he imagined
that he could part with her ? Rather would he
return to Lady Lodore, to dishonour, to scenes
of hate and of the world's contempt, so that
thus he preserved her: it could not be re-
quired of him ; but if Cornelia's heart was ani-
mated by a tithe of the fondness that warmed
his, she would not hesitate in her choice ; but.

176 LODORI..

discarding every unworthy feeling, follow her
child into the distant and solitar}- abode he was
about to select.

Thus pacifying his conscience, Lodore came
to the condition of making his daughter the
partner of his exile. Soon after mid-day, they
arrived at Southampton ; a small vessel was on
the point of sailing for Havre, and on board
this he hurried. Before he went he gave one
hasty retrospective view to those he was leaving
behind — his wife, his sister, the filial antagonist
from whom lie was flying ; he could readily
address himself to the first of these, when
landed on the opposite coast ; but as he wished
to keep his destination a secret from the latter,
and to prevent, if possible, his being followed
and defied by him, an event still to be feared,
he employed the few remaining minutes, before
quitting his country for ever, in writing a brief
letter to the Countess Lyzinski, which he gave
in charge to a servant whom he dismissed, and
sent back to town. And thus he now addressed

LODORK. 177

her, who, in his early life, had been as the
moon to raise the tide of passion, incapable,
alas ! of controlling its waves when at the
full.

" It is all over: I have fulfilled my part —

the rest remains with you. To prevent the

ruin which my folly has brought down, from

crushing any but myself, I quit country, home,

good name — all that is dear to man. I do not

complain, nor will I repine. But let the evil,

I entreat you, stop here. Casimir must not

follow me; he must not know whither I am

gone ; and while he brands his antagonist with

the name of coward, he must not guess that for

his sake I endure this stain. I leave it to your

prudence and sagacity to calm or to mislead

him, to prevent his suspecting the truth, or

rashly seeking my life. I sacrifice more, far

more, than my heart's blood on his account —

let that satisfy even your vengeance.

" I would not write harshly. The dream of

i 5

178 LODORK.

life lias long been over for me ; it matters not
how or where the last sands flow out. I do not
blame you even for this ill-omened journey to
England, which could avail you nothing. Once
before we parted for ever, Theodora ; but that
- paration was as the pastime of children in
comparison with the tragic scene we now enact.
A thousand dangers yawn between us, and we
shall neither dare to repass the gulf that
divides us. Forget me; — be happy, and forget
me! May Casimir be a blessing to you, and
while you glory in his perfections and prospe-
rity, cast into oblivion every thought of him,
who now bids you an eternal adieu."

LODORE. 179

CHAPTER XII.

Her virtue, like our own, was built
Too much on that indignant fuss,
Hypocrite pride stirs up in us,
To bully out another's guilt.

Shelley.

The fifth day after Lord Lodore's departure
brought Cornelia a letter from him. She had
spent the interval at Twickenham, surrendering
her sorrows and their consolation to her mother's
care ; and inspired by her with deep resentment
and angry disdain. The letter she received was
dated Havre : the substance of it was as follow^.

" Believe me I am actuated by no selfish
considerations, when I ask you once again to re-

180 LO DO in-

flect before the Atlantic divides us — probably
for ever. It is for your own sake, your own
happiness only, that I ask you to hesitate. I will
not urge your duty to me; the dishonour that
lias fallen on me I am most ready to bear alone ;
mine towards you, as far as present circumstances
permit, I am desirous to fulfil, and this feeling
dictates my present address.

" Consider the solitary years you will pass
alone, even though in a crowd, divided from
your husband and your child — your home de-
solate—calumny and ill-nature at watch around
von — nut one protecting arm stretched over you.
Your mother's presence, it is true, will suffice
to prevent your position from being in the
Least equivocal ; but the time will soon come
when you will discover your mistake in her,
and find how unworthy she is of your exclusive
affection. I will not urge the temptations and
dangers that will beset you ; your pride will, I
doubt not, preserve you from these, yet they
will be near you in their worst shape : you will

L0D011E. 181

feel their approaches; you will shudder at their

menaces, you will desire my death, and the
faith pledged to me at the altar will become a
chain and a torture to you.

" I can only offer such affection as your
sacrifice will deserve to adorn a lonely and
obscure home; rank, society, flatterers, the lux-
uries of civilization — all these blessings you
must forego. Your lot will be cast in solitude.
The wide forest, the uninhabited plain, will
shelter us. Your husband, your child ; in us
alone you must view the sum and aim of
your life. I will not use the language of per-
suasion, but in inviting you to share my pri-
vations, I renew, yet more solemnly, the vows
we once interchanged ; and it shall be my care
to endeavour to fulfil mine with more satisfac-
tion to both of us than has until now been the
ease.

44 It is useless to attempt to veil the truth,
that hitherto our hearts have been alienated
from each other. The cause is not in ourselves,

182 LODORE.

and must never again be permitted to influence
either of us. If amidst the avocations of so-
ciety, the presence of a third person has been
sufficient to place division between us ; — if, on
the flowerv path of our prosperous life, one
fatal interference has strewn thorns and burning
ashes beneath our feet, how much more keenly
would this intervention be felt in the retirement
in which we are hereafter to spend our days. —
In the lonely spot to which it will be necessary
to contract all our thoughts and hopes, love
must alone reign ; or hell itself would be but
pastime in comparison to our ever-renewing
and sleepless torments. The spirit of world li-
ness, of discord, of paltry pride, must not enter
the paling which is to surround our simple
dwelling. Come, attended by affection, by
open-hearted confidence ; — come to me— to your
child ! — you will find with us peace and mutual
love, the true secret of life. All that can make
your mother happy in England, shall be pro-
vided with no niggard hand : — but come alone,

LODORK. 183

Cornelia, my wife!— come, to take possession
of the hearts that are truly yours, and to learn
a new lesson, in a new world, from him who
will dedicate himself entirely to you.

" Alas ! I fear that I speak an unknown lan-
guage, and one that you will never deign to
understand. Still I again implore you to reflect
before you decide. On one point I am firm — I
feel that I am in the right— that every thing de-
pends upon it. Our daughter's guileless heart
shall never be tainted by all that I abhor and
despise. For her sake, for yours, more than
for my own, I am as rock upon one question.
Do not strive to move me — it will be useless !
Come alone ! and ten thousand welcomes and
blessings shall hail your arrival !

" A vessel, in which I have engaged a passage,
sails for New York, from this place, in five
days time. You must not delay your decision ;
but hasten, if such be your gracious resolve, to
join me here.

" If you decide to sacrifice yourself to one

184 LODORE.

who will never repay that sacrifice, and to the
world, — that dreary, pain-haunted jungle, — at
least you shall receive from me all that can ren-
der your situation there prosperous. You shall
not complain of want of generosity on my part.
J shall, in my new course of life, require little
myself; the remainder of my fortune shall be
at your disposal.

" I need not recommend secrecy to you as to
the real motive of my exile —your own sense of
delicacy will dictate reserve and silence. This
letter will be delivered to vou by Fenton : he
will attend vou back here, or bring me your
negative— tin- seal, I feel assured, of your fu-
ture misery. God grant that you choose wisely
and well ! Adieu."

The heart of Lady Lodore burnt within her
bosom as she read these lines. Haughty and
proud, was she to be dictated to thus ? and to
follow, an obedient slave, the master that
deigned to recall her to his presence, after he

LODORE. 185

had (so she termed his abrupt departure) de-
serted her ? Her mother sate by, looking at
her with an anxious and inquiring glance, as
she read the letter. She saw the changes of her
countenance, as it expressed anger, scorn, and
bitter indignation. She finished — she was still
silent;— how could she show this insulting
address to her parent? Again she seemed to
study its contents — to ponder.

Lady Santerre rose — gently she was taking
the paper from Cornelia's hand. " You must
not read it," she cried ; — " and yet you must ;
— and thus one other wrong is heaped upon the
many."

Lady Santerre read the letter ; silently she
perused it — folded it — placed it on the table.
Cornelia looked up at her. " I do not fear
your decision," she said ; " you will not aban-
don a parent, who has devoted herself to you
from your cradle — who lives but for you.11

The unhappy girl, unable to resist her mother's
appeal, threw herself into her arms. Even the

18G LODORE.

<

cold Lady Santerre was moved — tears flowed from
her eyes: — "My dear child V she exclaimed.

" My dear child !" — the words found an echo
in Lady Lodore's bosom ; — " I am never to see
my child more ["

" Such is his threat,*1 said her mother,
" knowing thus the power he has over you ;
but do not fear that it will be accomplished.
Lord Lodore's conduct is guided by no prin-
ciple— by no deference to the opinion of the
world —by no just or sober motives. He is as
full of passion as a mailman, and more vacil-
lating. This is his fancy now — to quit England
for the wilderness, and to torture you into follow-
ing him. You are as lost as he, if you yield.
A little patience, and all will be right again.
He will soon grow tired of playing the tragic
hero on a stage surrounded by no spectators ;
he will discover the folly of his conduct; he
will return, and plead for forgiveness, and feel
that he is too fortunate in a wife, who has pre-
served her own conduct free from censure and

LODORE. ]87

remark, while he has made himself a laughing
stock to all. Do not permit yourself, dear Cor-
nelia, to be baffled in this war of passion with rea-
son ; of jealousy, selfishness, and tyranny, with
natural affection, a child's duty, and the respect
you owe to yourself. Even if he remain away,
he will quickly become weary of being accom-
panied by an infant and its nurse, and too glad
to find that you will still be willing to act the
mother towards his child. Firmness and discre-
tion are the arms you must use against folly and
violence. Yield, and you are the victim of a
despotism without parallel, the slave of a task-
master, whose first commands are gentle, soft,
and easy injunctions to desert your mother : to
exile yourself from your country, and to bury
yourself alive in some unheard-of desert, whose
name even he does not deign to communicate.
All this would be only too silly and too wild,
were it not too wicked and too cruel. Believe
me, my love, trust yourself to my guidance,
and all will be well ; Lodore himself will thank,

188 LODORE.

if such thanks be of value, the prudence and
generosity you will display."

Cornelia listened, and was persuaded. Above
all, Lady Santerre tried to impress upon her
mind, that Lodore, finding her firm, would give
up his rash schemes, and remain in Europe ;
that even he had, probably, never really con-
templated crossing the Atlantic. At all events,
that she must not be guided by the resolves,
changeable as the moon, of a man governed
by no sane purpose ; but that, by showing
herself determined, lie would be brought to bend
to her will. In this spirit Lady Lodore replied
to her husband's letter. Fenton, Lord Lodore's
valet, who had been the bearer, had left it, and
proceeded to London. He returned the day
following, to receive his lady's orders. Cor-
nelia saw him and questioned him. She heard
that Lord Lodore was to dismiss him and all
his English servants before embarking for Ame-
rica, with the exception of the child's nurse,
whom he had promised to send back on his ar-

LODORE. 189

rival at New York. He had engaged his pas-
sage, and fitted up cabins for his convenience,
so that there could be no doubt of his having
finally resolved to emigrate. This was all he
knew ; Cornelia gave him her letter, and he de-
parted on the instant for Southampton.

In giving his wife so short an interval in
which to form her determination, Lodore con-
ceived that her first impulse would be to join her
child, that she would act upon it, and at least
come as far as Havre, though perhaps her mother
would accompany her, to claim her daughter,
even if she did not besides foster a hope of
changing his resolves. Lodore had an unac-
knowledged reserve in his own mind, that if she
would give up her mother, and for a time the
world, he would leave the choice of their exile
to her, and relinquish the dreary scheme of emi-
grating to America. With these thoughts in
his mind, lie anxiously awaited each day the ar-
rival of the packets from England. Each day
lie hoped to see Cornelia disembark from one of

190 LODORE.

them ; and even though accompanied by Lady
Santerre, he felt that his heart would welcome
her. During this interval, his thoughts had re-
curred to his home; and imagination had already
begun to paint the memory of that home, in
brighter colours than the reality. Lady Lodore
had not been all coldness and alienation ; in spite
of dissension, she had been his; her form,
graceful as a nymph's, had met his eyes each
morning ; her smile, her voice, her light cheer-
ing laugh, had animated and embellished, how
many hours during the long days, grown vacant
without her. Cherishing a hope of seeing her
again, he forgot her petulance — her self-will —
her love of pleasure ; and remembering only her
beaut v and her grace, he began, in a lover-like
fashion, to impart to this charming image, a soul
in accordance to his wishes, rather than to the
reality. Each day he attended less carefully to
the preparations of his long voyage. Each day
he expected her ; a chill came over his heart at
each evening's still recurring disappointment, till

LODORE. 191

hope awoke on the ensuing morning. More than
once he had been on the eve of sailing to Eng-
land to meet and escort her ; a thousand times he
reproached himself for not having made South-
ampton tlie place of meeting, and lie was with-
held from proceeding thither only by the fear of
missing her. Giving way to these sentiments,
the tide of affection, swelling into passion, rose
in his breast. He doubted not that, ere long,
she would arrive, and taxed himself for modes
to show his gratitude and love.

The American vessel was on the point of sail-
ing— it might have gone without him, he cared
not; when on the sixth day Fenton arrived,
and put into his hand Cornelia's letter. This
then was the end of his expectation, this little
paper coldly closed in the destruction of his
hopes ; yet might it not merely contain a re-
quest for delay ? There was something in
the servant's manner, that looked not like
that; but still, as soon as the idea crossed
him, he tore open the seal. The words were

192 LODORI.

few, they were conceived in all the spirit of re-
sentment.

fc' You add insult to cruelty," it said. t£ but
I scorn to complain. The very condition you
make displays the hollowness and deceit of
your proceeding. You well know that I cannot,
that I will not, desert my mother ; but by
calling on me for this dereliction of all duty and
virtuous affection, you contrive to throw on me
the odium of refusing to accompany you ; this
i> a worthy design, and it is successful.

M I demand my child — restore her to me. It
is cruelty beyond compare, to separate one so
young from maternal tenderness and fosterage.
By what right — through what plea, do you rob
me of her? The tyranny and dark jealousy of
your vindictive nature display themselves in this
act of unprincipled violence, as well as in your
insulting treatment of my mother. You alone
must reign, be feared, be thought of; all others
are to be sacrificed, living victims, at the shrine

LODORE. 193

of your self-love. What have you done to
merit so much devotion ? Ask your heart — if it
be not turned to stone, ask it what you have
done to compare with the long years of affec-
tion, kindness, and never-ceasing care that my
beloved parent has bestowed on me. I am your
wife, Lodore ; I bear your name ; I will be
true to the vows I have made you, nor will I
number the tears you force me to shed ; but my
mother's are sacred, and not one falls in vain
for me.

" Give me my child — let the rest be yours —
depart in peace ! If Heaven have blessings for
the coldly egotistical, the unfeeling de-pot, may
these blessings be yours ; but do not dare to in-
terfere with emotions too pure, too disinterested
for you ever to understand. Give me my child,
and fear neither my interference nor resentment.
I am content to be as dead to you — quite con-
tent never to see you more."

vol. i.

194 LODORE.

CHAPTER XIII.

And so farewell ; for we will henceforth be
As we had never seen, ne'er more shall see.

Heywood.

Lodork had passed many days upon the sea, on
his voyage to America, before he could in the
least calm the bitter emotions to which Cornelia's
violent letter had given birth. He was on the
wide Atlantic ; the turbid ocean swelled and
roared around him, and heaven, the mansion of
the winds, showed on its horizon an extent of
water only. He was cut off from England, from
Europe, for ever; and the vast continents he quit-
ted dwindled into a span ; but still the images of

LODORE. 195

those he left behind dwelt in his soul, engros
ing and filling it. They could no longer per-
sonally taunt nor injure him ; but the thought
of them, of all that they might say or do, haunted
his mind; it was like an unreal strife of gigantic
shadows beneath dark night, which, when you
approach, dwindles into thin air, but which, con-
templated at a distance, fills the hemisphere
with star-reaching heads, and steps that scale
mountains. There was a sleepless tumult in
Lodore's heart ; it was a waking dream of the
most painful description. Again and again
Cornelia assailed him with reproaches, and
Lady Santerre poured out curses upon him ;
his fancy lent them words and looks full of
menace, hate, and violence. Sometimes the
sighing of the breeze in the shrouds assumed
a tone that mocked their voices ; his sleep was
disturbed by dreams more painful than his day-
light fancies ; and the sense which they impart-
ed of suffering and oppression, was prolonged
throughout the day.

k 2

196 LODOKE.

lie occasionally felt that he might become
mad, and at such moments, the presence of his
child brought consolation and calm ; her caresses,
her lisped expressions of affection, her playful-
ness, her smiles, were spells to drive away the fan-
tastic reveries that tortured him. He looked
upon her cherub face, and the world, late so full
of wretchedness and ill, assumed brighter hues;
the storm was allayed, the dark clouds fled,
sunshine poured forth its beams ; by degrees,
tender and gentle sensations crept over hi>
heart ; he forgot the angry contentions in which,
in imagination, he had been engaged, and he
felt, that alone on the sea, with this earthly angel
of peace near him, he was divided from every
evil, to dwell with tranquillity and love.

To part with her had become impossible.
She was all that rendered him human — that
plucked the thorn from his pillow, and poured
one mitigating drop into the bitter draught ad-
ministered to him.

Cornelia, Casimir, Theodora, his mother-in-

LODORE. 197

law, these wen all various names and shapes of
the spirit of evil, sent upon earth to torture
him : but this heavenly sprite could set at
nought their machinations and restore him to
the calm and hopes of childhood. Extreme in
all things, Lodore began more than ever to
doat upon her and to bind up his life in her.
Yet sometimes his heart softened at the recollec-
tion of his wife, of her extreme youth, and of the
natural pang she must feel at being deprived
of her daughter. He figured her pining, and in
tears — he remembered that he had vowed to pro-
tect and love her for ever ; and that deprived
of him, never more could the soft attentions
and sweet language of love soothe her heart or
meet her ear, unattended with a sense of guilt
and degradation. He knew that hereafter she
might feel this — hereafter, when passion might
be roused, and he could afford no remedy.
Influenced by such ideas, he wrote to her ; many
letters he wrote during his voyage, destroying
them one after another, dictated by the varying

198 LODORE.

feelings that alternately ruled him. Reason and
persuasion, authority and tenderness, reigned by
turns in these epistles ; they were written with all
the fervour of his ardent soul, and breathed
irresistible power. Had some of these papers
met Cornelia's eye, she had assuredly been van-
quished ; but fate ordained it otherwise : fate
that blindly weaves our web of life, culling her
materials at will, and often wholly refusing to
make use of our own desires and intentions, as
forming a part of our destiny.

Lodore arrived at New York, and found, by
some chance, letters already waiting for him
there. He had concluded one to his wife full
of affection and kindness, when a letter with
the superscription written by Lady Santerre was
delivered to him. It spoke of law proceedings,
of eternal separation, and announced her daugh-
ter's resolve to receive no communication, to
read no address, that was not prefaced by the
restoration of her child ; it referred him to a
solicitor as the medium of future intercourse.

LODORE. 199

With a bitter laugh Lodore tore to pieces the
eloquent and heartfelt appeal he had been on
the ])oint of sending ; he gave up his thoughts
to business only ; he wrote to his agent, he ar-
ranged for his intended journey ; in less than a
month he was on his road to the Illinois.

Thus ended all hope of reconciliation, and
Lady Santerre won the day. She had worked
on the least amiable of her daughter's feelings,
and exalted anger into hatred, disapprobation
into contempt and aversion. Soon after Cornelia
had dismissed the servant, she felt that she had
acted with too little reflection. Her heart died
within her at the idea, that too truly Lodore
might sail away with her child, and leave her
widowed and solitary for ever. Her proud heart
knew, on this account, no relenting towards her
husband, the author of these painful feelings,
but she formed the resolve not to lose all with-
out a struggle. She announced her intention
of proceeding to Havre to obtain her daughter.
Lady Santerre could not oppose so natural a

200 lodoiw;.

proceeding, especially as her companionship was
solicited as in the highest degree necessary.
They arrived at Southampton ; the day was
tempestuous, the wind contrary. Lady Santerre
was afraid of the water, and their voyage was
deferred. On the evening of the following day,
Fenton arrived from Havre. Lord Lodore had
sailed, the stormy waves of the Atlantic were
between him and the shores of England ; pur-
suit were vain ; it would be an acknowledgment
of defeat to follow him to America. Cornelia
returned to Twickenham, maternal sorrow con-
tending in her heart with mortified pride, and a
keen resentful sense of injury.

Lady Lodore was nineteen ; an age when youth
is most arrogant, and most heedless of the feel-
ings of others. Her beauty and the admiration
it acquired, sate her on the throne of the world,
and, to her own imagination, she looked down
like an eastern princess, upon slaves only : her
sway she had believed to be absolute ; it was
happiness for others to obey. Exalted by adula-

LODORE. 201

tioiij it was natural that all that lowered her ele-
vation in her own eyes, should appear impertinent
and hateful. She had not learned to feel with
or for others. To act in contradiction to her
wishes was a crime beyond compare, and hei
soul was in arms to resent the insolence which
thus assailed her majesty of will. The act of Lb-
dore, stepping beyond common-place opposition
into injury and wrong, found no mitigating ex-
cuses in her heart. No gentle return of love,
no compassion for the unhappy exile — no gene-
rous desire to diminish the sufferings of one,
who was the victim of the wildest and most tor-
menting passions, softened her bosom. She
was injured, insulted, despised, and her swel-
ling soul was incapable of any second emotion
to the scorn and hate with which she visited the
author of her degradation. She was to become
the theme of the world's discourse, of its ill-
natured censure or mortifying pity. In what-
ever light she viewed her present position, it
was full of annoyance and humiliation ; her

k 5

202 LODORE.

path was traced through a maze of pointed
angles, that pained her at every turn, and her
reflections magnifying the imprudence of which
she accused herself, suggested no excuse for her
husband, but caused her wounds to fester and
burn. Cornelia was not of a lachrymose dispo-
sition ; she was a woman who in Sparta had
formed an heroine ; who in periods of war and
revolution, would unflinchingly have met cala-
mity, sustaining and leading her own sex. But
through the bad education she had received, and
her extreme youth, elevation of feeling dege-
nerated into mere personal pride, and heroism
was turned into obstinacy ; she had been capable
of the most admirable self-sacrifice, had shebeen
taught the right shrine at which to devote her-
self; but her mind was narrowed by the mode
of her bringing up, and her loftiest ideas were
centered in worldly advantages the most worth-
less and pitiable. To defraud her of these,
was to deprive her of all that rendered life
worth preserving.

LODORE. 203

Lady Santerre soothed, flattered, and direct-
ed her. She poured the balm of gratified vanity
upon injured pride. She bade her expect
speedy repentance from her husband, and im-
pressed her with the idea, that if she were firm,
he must yield. His present blustering prog-
nosticated a speedy calm, when he would re-
gret all that he had done, and seek, by entire
submission, to win back his wife. Any appear-
ance of concession on her part would spoil all.
Cornelia's eyes flashed fire at the word. Conces-
sion ! and to whom ? To him who had wronged
and insulted her ? She readily gave into her
mother's hands the management of all future
intercourse with him, reserving alone, for her
own satisfaction, an absolute resolve never to
forgive.

The correspondence that ensued, carried on
across the Atlantic, and soon with many miles
of continent added to the space, only produced
an interchange of letters written with cool inso-
lence on one side, with heart-burning and im-

201 LODORI..

patience on the other. Each served to widen
the breach. When Cornelia was not awakened
to resent for herself, she took up arms on her
mother's account. When Lodore blamed her
for being the puppet of one incapable of any
generous feeling, one dedieated to the vulgar
worship of Mammon, she repelled the taunt, and
denied the servitude of soul of which she was
accused ; she declared that every virtue was en-
listed on her mother's side, and that she would
abide by her for ever. In truth, she loved her
the more for Lodore's hatred, and Lady San-
terre spared no pains to impress her with
the belief, that she was wholly devoted to
her

Thus years passed away. At first Lad\
Lodore had lived in some degree of retirement,
but persuaded again to emerge, she soon en-
tered into the Aery thickest maze of society.
Her fortune was sufficient to command a re-
spectable station, her beauty gained her par-
tizans, her untainted reputation secured her

LODORE. 205

position in the world. Attractive as she v.
she was so entirely and proudly correct, that
even the women were not afraid of her. All
her intimate associates were people whose rank
gave weight and brilliancy to her situation, but
who were conspicuous for their domestic virtues.
She was looked upon as an injured and deserted
wife, whose propriety of conduct was the more
admirable from the difficulties with which she
was surrounded ; she became more than ever the
fashion, and years glided on, as from season
to season she shone a bright star among many
luminaries, improving in charms and grace, as
knowledge of the world and the desire of pleas-
ing were added to her natural attractions.

The stories at first in circulation on Loilor
departure, all sufficiently wide from the truth,
were half forgotten, and served merely as an
obscure substratum for Cornelia's bright reputa-
tion. He was gone: he could no longer injure
nor benefit any, and was therefore no longer an
object of fear or love. The most charitable

206 LODORE.

construction put upon his conduct was, that he
was mad, and it was piously observed, that his
removal from this world would be a blessing.
Lady Santerre triumphed. Withering away in
unhonoured age, still she appeared in the halls
of the great, and played the part of Cerberus in
her daughter's drawing-room. Lady Lodore,
beautiful and admired, intoxicated with this
sort of prosperity, untouched by passion, un-
harmed by the temptations that surrounded her,
believed that life was spent most worthily in fol-
lowing the routine observed by those about her,
and securing the privilege of being exclusive.
She was the glass of fashion — the imitated by a
vast sect of imitator-. The deprivation of her
child was the sole cloud that came between her
and the sun. In despite of herself, she never saw
a little cherub with rosy cheeks and golden hair,
but her heart was visited by a pang ; and in her
dreams she often beheld, instead of the image
of the gay saloons in which she spent her
evenings, a desert wild — a solitary home — and

LODORE. 207

tiny footsteps on the dewy grass, guiding her
to her baby daughter, whose soft cooings, re-
membered during absence, were agonizing to
her. She awoke, and vowed her soul to hatred
of the author of her sufferings — the cruel-
hearted, insolent Lodore ; and then fled to
pleasure as the means of banishing these sad
and disturbing emotions. She never again saw
Casimir. Long before she re-appeared in the
world, he and his mother had quitted England.
Taught by the slight tinge of weakness that
had mingled with her intercourse with him,
she sedulously avoided like trials in future;
and placing her happiness in universal ap-
plause, love saw her set his power at nought,
and pride become a more impenetrable shield
than wisdom.

208 lodori;.

CHAPTER XIV.

Time and Change tog-ether take their flight.

L. E. L.

Fitzheney and his daughter travelled for
many days in rain and sunshine, across the
vast plains of America. Conversation beguiled
the way, and Ethel, delighted by the novelty
and variety of all she saw, often felt as if
springing from her seat with a new sense of ex-
citement and gladness. So much do the young
love change, that we have often thought it the
dispensation of the Creator, to show that we are

LODORE. 209

formed, at a certain age, to quit the parental
roof, like the patriarch, to seek some new abode
where to pitch our tents, and pasture our flocks.
The clear soft eyes of the fair girl glistened
with pleasure at each picturesque view, each
change of earth and sky, each new aspect of
civilization and its results, as they were pre-
sented to her.

Fitzhenry — or as he approaches the old
world, so long deserted by him, he may re-
sume his title — Lord Lodore had quitted his
abode in the Illinois upon the spur of the mo-
ment; he had left his peaceful dwelling im-
patiently, and in haste, giving himself no time
for second thoughts — scarcely for recollection.
As the fever of his mind subsided, he saw no
cause to repent his proceeding, and yet he be-
gan to look forward with an anxious and fore-
boding mind. He had become aware that the
village of the Illinois was not the scene iitted
for the developement of his daughter's firsl
social feelings, and that he ought to take her

210 LODORE.

among the educated and refined, to give her a
chance for happiness. A Gertrude or an Haidee,
brought up in the wilds, innocent and free, and
bestowing the treasure of their hearts on some
accomplished stranger, brought on purpose to
realize the ideal of their dreamy existences, is a
picture of beauty, that requires a miracle to
change into an actual event in life ; and that one
so pure, so guileless, and so inexperienced as
Ethel, should, in sheer ignorance, give her
affections away unworthily, was a danger to be
avoided beyond all others. Whitelock had per-
formed the part of the wandering stranger, but
he was ill-fitted for it; and Lodore's first idea
was to hurry his daughter away before she
should invest him, or any other, with attributes
of glory, drawn from her own imagination and
sensibility, wholly beyond his merits.

This was done. Father and daughter were
on their way to New York, having bid an eter-
nal adieu to the savannas and forests of the west.
For a time, Lodore's thoughts were haunted

-

LODORE. 211

by the image of the home they had left. The
murmuring of its stream was in his ears, the
shape of each distant hill, the grouping of the
trees, surrounding the wide-spread prairie, the
winding pathway and trelliscd arbour were be-
fore his eyes, and he thought of the changes
that the seasons would operate around, and of
his future plans unfulfilled, as any home-bred
farmer might, when his lease was out, and he
was forced to remove to another county.

As their steps drew near the city which was
their destination, these recollections became
fainter, and, except in discourse with Ethel,
when their talk usually recurred to the prairie,
and their late home, he began to anticipate the
future, and to reflect upon the results of his
present journey.

Whither was he about to go ? To England ?
What reception should he there meet ? and un-
der what auspices introduce his child to her
native country ? There was a stain upon his
reputation that no future conduct could efface.

■212 LODORE.

The name of Lodore was a by-word and a
mark for scorn ; it was introduced with a sneer,
followed by calumny and rebuke. It could not
even be forgotten. His wife had remained to
keep alive the censure or derision attached to
it. He, it is true, might have ceased to live
in the memories of any. He did not imagine
that his idea ever recurred to the thoughtless
throng, whose very name and identity were
changed by the lapse of twelve years. But
when it was mentioned, when he should awaken
the forgotten sound by his presence, the echo
of shame linked to it would awaken also; the
love of a sensation so rife among the wealthy and
idle, must swell the sound, and Ethel would be
led on the world's stage by one who was the
object of its opprobrium.

What then should he do ? Solicit Lady
Lodore to receive and bring out her daughter ?
Deprive himself of her society ; and after hav-
ing guarded her unassailed infancy, desert her
side at the moment when dangers grew thick,

LODOHI. 213

and her mother's example would operate mosl
detrimentally on her ? He thought of his sif-
ter, with whom he kept up a regular though
infrequent correspondence. She was ill fitted
to guide a young beauty on a path which slu
had never trod He thought of France, Italy.
and Germany, and how he might travel about
with her during the two or three succeeding
years, enlarging and storing her mind, and pro-
tracting the happy light-hearted years of youth.
His own experience on the continent would fa-
cilitate this plan ; and though it presented, even
on this very account, a variety of objections, it
was that to which he felt most attracted.

There was vet another — another image and
another prospect to which he turned with a kind
of gasping sensation, which was now a shrinking
aversion to — now an ardent desire for, its ful-
filment. This was the project of a reconcilia-
tion with Cornelia, and that they should hence-
forth unite in their labours to render each other
and their child happy.

214 LODORE.

Twelve years had passed since their separa-
tion : twelve years, which had led him from the
prime of life to its decline — which forced Cor-
nelia to number, instead of nineteen, more than
thirty years — bringing her from crude youth
to fullest maturity. What changes might not
time have operated in her mind ! Latterly no
intercourse had passed between them, they
were as dead to each other ; and yet the fact of
the existence of either was a paramount law
with both, ruling their actions and preventing
them from forming any new tie. Cornelia
might be tired of independence, have discovered
the hollowness of her mother's system, and de-
sire, but that pride prevented her, a reunion
with her long-exiled husband. Iler under-
standing was good ; intercourse with the world
had probably operated to cultivate and enlarge
it — maternal love might reign in full force,
causing her heart to yearn towards the bloom-
ing Ethel, and a thousand untold sorrows might
make her regard the affection of her child's

LODORK. 21 5

father, as the prop, the shelter, the haven, where
to find peace, if not happiness.

And yet Cornelia was still young, still beau-
tiful, still admired : he was on the wane — a
healthy life had preserved the uprightness of
his form and the spring of his limbs; but his
countenance, how changed from the Lodore who
pledged his faith to her in the rustic church
at Rhyaider Gowy ! The melting softness of
his dark eyes was altered to mere sadness —
his brow, from which the hair had retreated,
was delved by a thousand lines ; grey sprinkled
his black hair, — a wintry morning stealing
drearily upon night — each year had left its
trace, and with no Praxitelean hand, engraven
lines upon the rounded cheek, and sunk and
diminished the full eye. Twelve years had
scarcely operated so great a change as here de-
scribed ; but thus he painted it to himself, ex-
aggerating and deforming the image his mirror
presented — and where others had only marked
the indications of a thoughtful mind, and the

216 LODORE.

traces of over-wrought sensibility, he beheld
careful furrows and age-worn wrinkles.

And was he thus to claim the beautiful, the
courted— she who still reigned supreme on Lovers
own throne ? and to whom, so had he been
told, time had brought increased charms as its
gift, st re wing roses and fragrance on her lovely
head, so proving that neither grief nor passion
had disturbed the proud serenity of her heart.

Lodore had lived many years the life of a
recluse, having given up ambition, hope, almost
life itself, inasmuch as that existence is scarcely
to be termed life, which does not bring us into
intimate connexion with our fellow-creature
nor develope in its progress some plan of present
action or anticipation for the future. He was
roused from hi^ lethargy as he approached peo-
pled cities; a desire to mingle again in human af-
fairs was awakened, together with an impatience
under the obscurity to which he had condemned
himself. He grew'at last to despise his supineness,
which had prevented him from struggling with

LODOiu:. 217

and vanquishing his adverse fortunes. He re-
solved no longer to be weighed down by the fear of
obloquy, while he was conscious of the brawn
and determination of his soul, and with what
lofty indignation he was prepared to sweep away
the stigma attached to him, and to assert the
brightness of his honour. This, for his daugh-
ter's sake, as well as for his own, he determined
to do.

He had no wish, however, to enter upon the
task in America. His native country must be
the scene of his exertions, as to re-assert himself
among his countrymen was their object. He
felt, also, that, from the beginning, lie must
take no false step ; and it behoved him fully to
understand the state of things in England as
regarded him, before he presentLd himself. He
delayed his voyage, therefore, till he had ex-
changed letters with Europe. He wrote to
his sister, immediately on arriving at New
York, asking for intelligence concerning Lady
Lodore ; and communicating his intention to

VOL. I. L

CJ18 LODORE.

return immediately, and, if possible, to effect a
reconciliation with bis estranged wife. He be-
sought an immediate reply, as be did not wish
to defer his voyage beyond the spring months.

Having sent thi* letter, he gave himself up
to the society of his daughter. He occupied
himself by endeavouring to form her for the
new scenes on winch she was about to enter,
and to divest her of the first raw astonishment
excited by the contrast formed by the busy, com-
mercial eastern, with the majestic tranquillity
of the western portion of the new world. He
wished to accustom her to mingle with her fellow-
creatures with ease and dignity ; and he sought
to enlarge her mind, and to excite her curiosity,
by introducing her to the effects of civilization.
He would willingly have formed acquaintances
for her sake, but that sucb a circumstance
might interfere with the incognito he meant to
preserve while away from his native country.
We can never divest ourselves of our identity and
consciousness, and are apt to fancy that others

LODORE. 219

are equally alive to our peculiar individuality.
It was not probable that the name of Lodore, or
of Eitzhenry, should be known in New York ;
but as the title had been bestowed as a reward
for victories obtained over the Americans, he
who bore it was less to be blamed for fancying
that they had heard with pleasure the story of
his disgrace, and would be ready to visit his
fault with malignant severity.

An accident, however, brought him into con-
tact with an English lady, and he gladly availed
himself of this opportunity to bring Ethel into
the society of her country people. One day he
received an elegant little note, such as are writ-
ten in London by the fashionable and the fair,
which, with many apologies, contained a request.
The writer had heard that he was about to re-
turn to England with his daughter. Would he
refuse to take under his charge a young lady,
who was desirous of returning thither? The dis-
tance from their native land drew English people
together, and usually made them kindly disposed

l 2

220 LODORE.

towards each other. The circumstances under
which this request was made were peculiar ;
and if he would call to hear them explained,
his interest would be excited, and he would not
refuse a favour which would lay the writer un-
der the deepest obligation.

Lodore answered this application in person.
He found an English family residing in one of the
best streets of New York, and was introduced to
the lady who had addressed him. Her story, the
occasion of her request, was detailed without
reserve. Her husband's family had formerly
been American royalists, refugees in England,
where they had lived poor and forgotten. A
brother of his father had remained behind in
the new country, and acquired a large fortune.
He had lived to extreme old age; and dying
childless, left his wealth to his English nephew,
upon condition that he settled in America.
This had caused their emigration. While in
England, they had lived at Bath, and been in-
timate with a clergyman, who resided near.

LODORE. 2-2]

This clergyman was a singular man — a recluse,
and a student — a man of ardent soul, held down
by a timid, nervous disposition. He was an
outcast from his family, which was wealthy and
of good station, on account of having formed a
mes-alliance. How indeed he could have mar-
ried his unequal partner was matter of exces-
sive wonder. She was illiterate and vulgar —
coarse-minded, though good-natured. This ill-
matched pair had two daughters ; — one, the
younger, now about fourteen years old, was the
person whom it was desired to commit to Lo-
dore's protection.

The lady continued : — She had a large family
of boys, and but one girl, of the age of Fanny
Derham ; — they had been for some years com-
panions and friends. When about to emigrate,
she believed that she should benefit equally her
daughter and her friend, if she made the latter a
companion in their emigration. With great re-
luctance, Mr. Derham had consented to part with
his child : he had thought it for her good, and

222 LODORE.

he had let her go. Fanny obeyed her father.
She manifested no disinclination to the plan ;
and it seemed as if the benevolent wishes of
Mrs. Greville were fulfilled for the benefit of
all. They had been in America nearly a year,
and now Fanny was to return. She herself had
borne her absence from her father with forti-
tude : yet it required an exertion of fortitude
to bear it, which was destroying the natural
vivacity of her disposition. Gloom gathered
over her mind ; she fled society ; she sought
solitude; and spent day after day in reverie.
Mrs. Greville strove to rouse her, and Fanny
lent herself with good grace to any exertion de-
manded of her; yet it was plain, that even when
she gave herself most up to her desire to please
her hostess, her thoughts were far away, her
eye was tracing the invisible outline of objects
divided from her by the ocean ; and her inmost
sense was absorbed by the recollection of one
far distant ; while her ear and voice were ab-
stractedly lent to those immediately around her.

LODORE. 22.°>

Mrs. Greville endeavoured vainly to amuse and
distract her thoughts. The only pleasure which
attracted her young mind was study — a deep
and unremitted application to those profound
acquirements, to theknowledge of which her
father had introduced her.

" When you know my young friend,11 con-
tinued Mrs. Greville, " you will understand the
force of character which renders her unlike
every other child. Fanny never was a child.
Mrs. Derham and her daughter Sarah bustled
through the business of life — of the farm and the
house ; while it devolved on Fanny to attend to,
to wait upon, her father. She was his pupil — he
her care. The relation of parent and child sub-
sisted between them, on a different footing than
in ordinary cases. Fanny nursed her father,
watched over his health and humours, with the
tenderness and indulgence of a mother; while he
instructed her in the dead languages, and other
sorts of abstruse learning, which seldom make a
part of a girFs education. Fanny, to use her own

224 LODORE.

singular language, loves philosophy, and pants
after knowledge, and indulges in a thousand Pla-
tonic dreams, which I know nothing about ; and
this mysterious and fanciful learning she has
dwelt upon with tenfold fervour since her arrival
in America.

" The contrast," continued Mrs. Greville,
" between this wonderful, but strange girl, and
her parent, is apparent in nothing more than
the incident that made me have recourse to
your kindness. Fanny pined for home, and
her father. The very air of America wras dis-
tasteful to her — we were not congenial com-
panions. But she never expressed discontent.
As much as she could, she shut herself up in
the world of her own mind ; but outwardly,
she was cheerful and uncomplaining. A week
ago we had letters from her parents, requesting
her immediate return. Mr. Derham wasted away
without her; his health was seriously injured
by what, in feminine dialect, is called fretting ;
and both he and her mother have implored me
to send her back to them without delay.""

LODORE. 225

Lord Lodore listened with breathless interest,
asking now and then such questions as drew on
Mrs. Greville to further explanation. He suon
became convinced that he was called upon to do
this act of kindness for the daughter of his for-
mer school-fellow — for Francis Derham, whom
he had not known nor seen since they had ex-
changed the visions of boyhood for the disap-
pointing realities of maturer age. And this
was Derham 's fate ! — poor, mis-matched, de-
stroyed by a morbid sensibility, an object of
pity to his own young child, yet adored by her
as the gentlest and wisest of men. How dif-
ferent— and yet how similar — the destinies of
both ! It warmed the heart of Lodore to think
that he should renew his boyish intimacy. Der-
ham would not reject him — would not partici-
pate in the world's blind scorn : in his bosom
no harsh nor unjust feeling could have place ;
his simple, warm heart would yearn towards him
as of yore ; and the school-fellows become again

all the world to each other.

l5

226 LODORE.

After this explanation, Mrs. Greville intro-
duced her young friend. Her resemblance to
her father was at first sight remarkable, and
awoke with greater keenness the roused sensi-
bility of Lodore. She was pale and fair ; her
light, golden hair clustered in short ringlets over
her small, well-formed head, leaving unshaded
a high forehead, clear as opening day. Her
blue eyes were remarkably light and penetrating,
with defined and straight brows. Intelligence,
or rather understanding, reigned in every fea-
ture ; independence of thought, and firmness,
spoke in every gesture. She was a mere child
in form and mien — even in her expressions; but
within her was discernible an embryo of power,
and a grandeur of soul, not to be mistaken. Sim-
plicity and equability of temper were her cha-
racteristics : these smoothed the ruggedness
which the singularity of her character might
otherwise have engendered.

Lodore rejoiced in the strange accident that
gave such a companion to his daughter. Nothing

LODORE. 227

could be in stronger contrast than these two
girls; — the fairy form, the romantic and yield-
ing sweetness of Ethel, whose clinging affections
formed her whole world, — with the studious and
abstracted disciple of ancient learning. Not-
withstanding this want of similarity, they soon
became mutually attached. Lodore was a link
between them. He excited Ethel to admire the
concentrated and independent spirit of her new
friend ; and entered into conversation with
Fanny on ancient philosophy, which was unin-
telligible and mysterious to Ethel. The three
became inseparable : they prolonged their ex-
cursions in the neighbouring country ; while
each enjoyed peculiar pleasures in the friendship
and sympathy of their companions.

This addition to their society, and an inti-
macy cultivated with Mrs. Greville, whose hus-
band was absent at Washington, formed, as it
were, a weaning time for Lodore, from the
seclusion of the Illinois. There he had lived,
cut off from the past and the future, existing in

228 LODORE.

the present only. He had been happy there ;
cured of the wounds which had penetrated his
heart so deeply, through the ministration of all-
healing nature. He felt the gliding of the hours
as a blessing; and the occupations of each day
were replete with calm enjoyment. He thought
of England, as a seaman newly saved from a
wreck would of the tempestuous ocean, with fear
and loathing, and with heart- felt gladness that
he was no longer the sport of its waves. He
cultivated such a philosophic turn of mind as
often brought a smile of self-pity on his lips, at
the recollection of scenes which, during their
passage, had provoked bitter and burning sen-
sations. What was all this strife of passion,
this eager struggle for something, he knew not
what, to him now ? The healthy labours of his
farm, the tranquillity of his library, the endear-
in o- caresses of his child, were worth all the
vanities of life.

Thus he had felt in the Illinois ; and now
again he looked back to his undisturbed life

LODORE. 229

there, wondering how lie had endured its mono-
tonous loneliness. A desire for action, for min-
gling with his fellow-men, had arisen in his
heart. He felt like a strong swimmer, who
loners to battle with the waves. He desired to
feel and to exert his powers, to fill a space in
the eyes of others, to re-assert himself in their
esteem, or to resent their scorn. He could no
longer regard the past with imperturbability.
Again his passions were roused, as he thought
of his mother-in-law, of his wife, and of the
strange scenes which had preceded and caused
his flight from England. These ideas had long
occupied his mind, without occasioning any emo-
tion. But now again they were full of interest ;
and pain and struggle again resulted from tin-
recollection. At such times he was glad that
Ethel had a companion, that he might leave her
and wander alone. He became a prey to the
same violence of passion, the same sense of in-
jury and stinging hurry of thought, which for
twelve years had ceased to torture him. But

230 LODORE.

no tincture of cowardice entered into his sensa-
tions. His soul was set upon victory over the
evil fortune to which he had so long submitted.
When he thought of returning to England,
from which he had fled with dishonour, his
cheek tingled as a thousand images of insult
and contumely passed rapidly through his mind,
as likely to visit him. His heart swelled within
him — his very soul grew faint ; but instead of
desiring to fly the anticipated opprobrium, he
longed to meet it and to wash out shame, if need
were, with his life's blood ; and, by resolution
and daring, to silence his enemies, and redeem
his name from obloquy.

One day, occupied by such thoughts, he stood
watching that vast and celebrated cataract, whose
everlasting and impetuous flow mirrored the
dauntless but rash energy of his own soul. A
vague desire of plunging into the whirl of waters
agitated him. His existence appeared to be a
blot in the creation ; his hopes, and fears, and
resolves, a worthless web of ill-assorted ideas,

LODORE. 231

best swept away at once from the creation.
Suddenly his eye caught the little figure of
Fanny Derham, standing on a rock not far
distant, her meaning eyes fixed on him. The
thunder of the waters prevented speech ; but as
he drew near her, he saw that she had a paper
in her hand. She held it out to him ; a blush
mantled over her usually pale countenance as
he took it ; and she sprung away up the rocky
pathway.

Lodore cast his eyes on the open letter, and his
own name, half forgotten by him, presented itself
on the written page. The letter was from
Fanny's father — from Derham, his friend and
school- fellow. His heart beat fast as he read the
words traced by one formerly so dear. " The
beloved name of Fitzhenry "-— thus Derham had
written — "awakens a strange conjecture. Is
not your kind protector, the friend and com-
panion of my boyish days ? Is it not the long
absent Lodore, who has stretched out a pater-
nal hand to my darling child, and who is about

23:2 LODORE.

to add to his former generous acts, the dearer
one of restoring my Fanny tome? Ask him
this question ; — extract this secret from him.
Tell him how my chilled heart warms with
pleasure at the prospect of a renewal of our
friendship. He was a god-like boy ; daring,
generous, and brave. The remembrance of him
has been the bright spot which, except yourself,
is all of cheering that has chequered my gloomy
existence. Ask him whether he remembers him
whose life he saved — whom he rescued from
oppression and misery. I am an old man now,
weighed down by sorrow and infirmity. Ad-
\ i Tsity has also visited him ; but lie will have
withstood the shocks of fate, as gallantly as a
mighty ship stems the waves of ocean : while I,
a weather-worn skiff, am battered and wrecked
by the tempest. From all you say, he must be
Lodore. Mark him, Fanny : if you see one
lofty in his mien, yet gracious in all his acts ;
his person adorned by the noblest attributes of
rank ; full of dignity, yet devoid of pride ;

LOU ORE. 233

impatient of all that is base and insolent, but
with a heart open as a woman's to compassion ;
— one whose slightest word possesses a charm
to attract and enchain the affections : — if such
be your new friend, put this letter into his hand ;
he will remember Francis Derham, and lo%<
you for my sake, as well as for your own."

234 LODORE.

CHAPTER XV.

It is our will
That thus enchains us to permitted ill.

Shelley.

This was a new inducement to brino; back Lo-
dore from the wilds of America, to the remem-
brance of former days. The flattering expres-
sions in DerhatrTs letter soothed his wounded
pride, and inspired a desire of associating once
more with men who could appreciate his worth,
and sympathize with his feelings. His spirits
became exhilarated ; he talked of Europe and
his return thither, with all the animation of
sanguine youth. It is one of the necessary

LODORE. 235

attributes of our nature, always to love what we
have once loved ; and though new objects and
change in former ones may chill our affections
for a time, we are filled with renewed fervour
after every fresh disappointment, and feel an
impatient longing to return to the cherishing
warmth of our early attachments; happy if we
do not find emptiness and desolation, where we
left life and hope.

Ethel had never been as happy as at the pre-
sent time, and her affection for her father
gathered strength from the confidence which
existed between them. He was the passion of
her soul, the engrossing attachment of her lov-
ing heart. When she saw a cloud on his brow,
she would stand by him with silent but plead-
ing tenderness, as if to ask whether any exer-
tion of hers could dissipate his inquietude. She
hung upon his discourse as a heavenly oracle,
and welcomed him with gladdened looks of love,
when he returned after any short absence. Her
heart was bent upon pleasing him, she had no

236 LODORE.

thought or pursuit which was not linked with
his participation.

There is perhaps in the list of human sensa-
tions, no one so pure, so perfect, and yet so im-
passioned, as the affection of a child for its
parent, during that brief interval when they are
leaving childhood, and have not yet felt love.
There is something so awful in a father. His
words are laws, and to obey them happiness.
Reverence and a desire to serve, are mingled
with gratitude; and duty, without a flaw or
question, so second the instinct of the heart, as
to render it imperative. Afterwards we may
love, in spite of the faults of the object of our
attachment ; but during the interval alluded
to, we have not yet learnt to tolerate, but also,
we have not learned to detect faults. All that
a parent does, appears an emanation from a
diviner world ; while we fear to offend, we
believe we have no right to be offended ; eager
to please, we seek in return approval only, and
are too humble to demand a reciprocity of at-

LODORE. 237

tention ; it is enough that we are permitted to
demonstrate our devotion. Ethel's heart over-
flowed with love, reverence, worship of her
father. He had stood in the wilds of America
a solitary specimen of all that is graceful, culti-
vated, and wise among men ; she knew of no-
thing that might compare to him ; and the
world without him, was what the earth might
be uninformed by light : he was its sun, its
ruling luminary. All this intensity of feeling ex-
isted in her, without her being aware scarcely of
it« existence, without her questioning the cause,
or reasoning on the effect. To love her father
was the first law of nature, the chief duty of a
child, and she fulfilled it unconsciously, but
more completely than she could have done had
she been associated with others, who might
have shared and weakened the concentrated sen-
sibility of her nature.

At length the packet arrived which brought
Lodore letters from England. Before his eyes
lav the closed letter pregnant with fate. He

238 L O D O R E.

was not of a disposition to recoil from certainty;
and yet for a few moments lie hesitated to break
the seals — appalled by the magnitude of the
crisis wbicb he believed to be at hand.

Latterly the idea of a reconciliation with Cor-
nelia had been a favourite in his thoughts. The
world was a painful and hard-tasking school.
She must have suffered various disappointments,
and endured much disgust, and so be prepared
to lend a willing ear to his overture. She was
so very young when they parted, and since
then, had lived entirely under the influence of
Lady Santerre. But what had at one time prov-
ed injurious, might, in course of years, have
opened her eyes to the vanity of the course which
she was pursuing. Lodore felt persuaded, that
there were better things tp be expected from his
wife, than a love of fashion and an adherence to
the prejudices of society. He had failed to bring
her good qualities to light, but time and events
might have played the tutor better, and it
merely required perhaps a seasonable inter-

LODORE. 239

ference, a fortunate circumstance, to prove the
truth of his opinion, and to show Lady Lodore
as generous, magnanimous, and devoted, as be-
fore she had appeared proud, selfish, and cold.

How few there are possessed of any sensibi-
lity, who mingle with, and are crushed by the
jostling interests of the world, who do not ever
and anon exclaim with the Psalmist, " O for
the wings of a dove, that I might flee away and
be at rest V If such an aspiration was ever
breathed by Cornelia, how gladly, how fondly
would her husband welcome the weary flutterer,
open his bosom for her refuge, and study to
make her forget all the disquietudes and follies
of headstrong youth!

This was a mere dream. Lodore si shed to
think that his position would not permit him to
afford her a shelter from the poisoned arrows
of the world. She must come to him prepared to
suffer much. It required not only the absence
of the vulgar worldliness of Lady Santerre, but
great strength of mind to forgive the past, and

240 LODORE.

strong affection to endure the present. He
could only invite her to share the lot of a dis-
honoured man, to become a partner in the strug-
gle which he was prepared to enter upon, to re-
gain his lost reputation. This was no cheering
prospect. Pride and generosity equally forbad
his endeavouring to persuade his wife to quit
a course of life she liked, to enter upon a scene
of trials and sorrows with one for whom she did
not care.

All these conjectures had long occupied him,
but here was certainty — the letter in his hand.
It was sealed with black, and a tremulous shud-
der ran through his frame as he tore it open.
He soon satisfied himself — Cornelia lived : he
breathed freely again, and proceeded more
calmly to make himself master of the intelli-
gence which the paper he held contained.

Cornelia lived ; but his sister announced a
death winch he believed would change the
colour of his life. Lady Santerre was no more !

Yes, Cornelia was alive ; the bride that had

LODORE. 241

stood beside him at the altar — whose hand lie
had held while he pronounced his vows — with
whom he had domesticated for years — the mo-
ther of his child still lived. The cold consum-
ing grave did not wrap her lovely form. The
idea of her death, which the appearance of the
black seal conveyed suddenly to his imagina-
tion, had been appalling beyond words. For
the last few weeks his mind had been filled with
her image ; his thoughts had fed upon the hope
that they should meet once more. Had she
died while he was living in inactive seclusion in
the Illinois, he might have been less moved ;
his vivid fancy, his passionate heart, could not
spare her now, without a pang of agony. It
passed away, and his mind reverted to the
actual situation in which they were placed by
the death of his mother-in-law. Reconciliation
had become easy by the removal of that fatal
barrier. He felt assured that he could acquire
Cornelia's confidence, win her love, and admi-
nister to her happiness ; he determined to leave

VOL. I, M

242 LODORE.

nothing untried to bring about so desirable a
conclusion to their long and dreary alienation.
The one insuperable obstacle was gone ; their
daughter, that loveliest link, that soft silken
tie remained: Cornelia must welcome with ma-
ternal delight this better portion of herself.

He glanced over his sister Elizabeth's letter,
announcing the death of Lady Santerre, and
then read the one enclosed from Ladv Lodore
to her sister-in-law. It was cold, but very de-
cisive. She thanked her first for the inquiries
she had made, and then proceeded to say, that
she took this opportunity, the only one likely
to present itself, of expressing what her own
feelings were on this melancholy occasion. " I
am afraid,1' she said, " that your brother will
look on the death of my dearest mother as
opening the door to our re-union. Some word-
in your letter seem indeed to intimate this, or I
should have hoped that I was entirely forgotten.
I trust that I am mistaken. My earnest desire
is, that my natural grief, and the tranquillity

LODORE. 243

which I try to secure for myself, may not be di>-
turbed by fruitless endeavours to bring about
what can never be. My determination may be
supposed to arise from pride and implacable
resentment : perhaps it does, but I feel it im-
possible that we should ever be any thing but
strangers to each other. I will not complain, and
I wish to avoid harsh allusions, but respect for
her I have lost, and a sense of undeserved wrong,
are paramount with me. I shall never intrude
upon him. Persuade him that it will be un-
manly cruelty to force himself, even by a letter,
on me."

From this violent declaration of an unforgiv-
ing heart, Lodore turned to Elizabeth's letter.
This excellent lady, to whom the names of dis-
sipation and the metropolis were synonymous,
and who knew as much of the world as Parson
Adams, assured her brother, that Cornelia,
far from feeling deeply the blow of her mother's
death, was pursuing her giddy course with
greater pertinacity than ever. Surrounded by

m 2

244 LODORE.

flatterers, given up to pleasure, she naturally
shrunk from being reminded of her exiled hus-
band and her forgotten child. Her letter
showed how ill she deserved the tenderness and
interest which Lodore had expressed. She was a
second Lady Santerre, without being gifted with
that maternal affection, which had in some de-
gree dignified that person's character.

Elizabeth lamented that his wife's hardness
of heart might prevent his proposed visit to
England. She did not like to unje it — it might
seem selfish : hitherto she had let herself and
her sorrows go for nothing ; could she think of
her own gratification, while her brother was
suffering >o much calamity? She was growing
old — indeed she was old— she had no kin around
her — early friends were dead or lost to her —
she had nothing to live on but the recollection
of her brother ; she should think herself blest
could she see him once more before she died.

" O my dear brother Henry," continued the
kind-hearted lady, " if you would but say the

LODOIU.. 245

word — the sea is nothing ; people older than I
— and I am not at all infirm — make the voyage.
Let me come to America — let me embrace my
niece, and see you once again — let me share
your dear home in the Illinois, which I see
every night in my dreams. I should grieve to
be a burthen to you, but it would be my endea-
vour to prove a comfort and a help.11

Lodore read both of these letters, one after
the other, again and again. He resolved on
going- to England immediately. Either Cor-
nelia was entirely callous and worthless, and so
to be discarded from his heart for ever, or after
her first bitter feelings on her mother's death
were over, she would soften towards her child,
or there was some dread secret feeling that in-
fluenced her, and he must save her from cala-
mity and wretchedness. One of those changes
of feeling to which the character of Lodore was
peculiarly subject, came over him. Lady San-
terre was dead — Cornelia was alone. A thou-
sand dangers surrounded her. It appeared to

246 LODORE.

him that his first imperious duty was to offer
himself to guard and watch over her. He re-
solved to leave nothing untried to make her
happy. He would give up Ethel to her — he
would gratify every wish she could frame —
pour out benefits lavishly before her — force her
to see in him a benefactor and a friend ; and at
last, his heart whispered, induce her to assume
again the duties of a wife.

LODORE. 247

CHAPTER XVI.

What is peace? When life is over,
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover,
Which precedes the passing knell.

Wordsworth.

Lodore was henceforth animated by a new
spirit of hope. His projects and resolves gave
him something to live for. He looked forward
with pleasure ; feeling, on his expected return to
his native country, as the fabled voyager, who
knew that he ought to be contented in the fair
island where chance had thrown him, and yet
who hailed with rapture the approach of the
sail that was to bear him back to the miseries

•218 LODORE.

of social life. He reflected that he had in all
probability many years before him, and he was
earnest that the decline of his life should, by a
display of prudence and virtuous exertion,
cause tlie errors of his earlier manhood to be
forgotten.

This inspiriting tone of mind was very con-
genial to Ethel. The prospects that occupied
her father had a definite horizon : all was vague
and misty to her eyes, yet beautiful and allur-
ing. Lodore gave no outline of his plans : he
never named her motlur. Uncertain himself,
he was unwilling to excite feelings in EtheFs
mind, to be afterwards cheeked and disap-
pointed. He painted the future in gay colours,
but left it in all the dimness most favourable
for an ardent imagination to exercise itself
upon.

In a very few days they were to sail for Eng-
land. Their passage was engaged. Lodore had
written to his sister to announce his return. He
spoke of Longfleld, and of her kind and gentle

i.odori.. 249

aunt to Ethel, and she, who, like Miranda, had
known no relative or intimate except her father,
warmed with pleasure to find new ties bind her
to her fellow-creatures. She questioned her
father, and lie, excited by his own newly-awak-
ened emotions, dilated eloquently on the joys
of his young days, and pleased Fanny, as well
as his own daughter, by a detail of boyish
pranks and adventures which his favourite
school-fellow shared. The freedom he enjoyed
in his paternal home, the worship that waited
on him there, the large space which in early
youth he appeared to fill in all men's eyes, the
buoyancy and innocence associated with those
unshadowed days, painted them to his memory
cloudless and bright. It would be to renew
them to see Longfield again, — to clasp once
more the hand of Francis Derham.

A kind of holiday and festal feeling was dif-
fused through Ethel's mind by the vivid de-
scriptions and frank communications of her
lather. She felt as if about to enter Paradise.

M D

250 LODORE.

America grew dim and sombre in her eyes ; its
forests, lakes, and wilds, were empty and silent,
while England swarmed with a thousand lovely
forms of pleasure. Her father strewed a downy
velvet path for her, which she trod with light,
girlish steps, happy in the present hour, hap-
pier in the anticipated future.

A few clays before the party were to sail,
Lodorc and his daughter dined with Mrs. Gre-
ville. As if they held the reins, and could curb
the course of, fate, each and all were filled with
hilarity. Lodore had forgotten Theodora and
her son — had cast from his recollection the long
train of misery, injury, and final ruin, which for
so Long had occupied his whole thoughts. He
was in his own eyes no longer the branded exile.
A strange distortion of vision blinded this unfor-
tunate man to the truth, which experience so
perpetually teaches us, that the consequences of
our actions never die: that repentance and time
may paint them to us in different shapes ; but
though we shut our eyes, they are still beside

LODORK. 251

us, helping the inexorable destinies to spin the
fatal thread, and sharpening the implement
which is to cut it asunder.

Lodore lived the morning of that day, (it
was the first of May, realizing by its brilliancy
and sweets, the favourite months of the poets,)
as if many a morning throughout the changeful
seasons was to be his. Some time he spent on
board the vessel in which he was to sail ; seeing
that all the arrangements which he had ordered
for Ethel and Fanny's comfort were perfected ;
then father and daughter rode out together.
Often did Ethel try to remember every word of
the conversation held during that ride. It con-
cerned the fair fields of England, the splendours
of Italy, the refinements and pleasures of Europe.
" When we are in London," — " When we shall
visit Naples," — such phrases perpetually oc-
curred. It was Lodore's plan to induce Cor-
nelia to travel with him, and to invite Mr. Der-
ham and Fanny to be their companions ; a
warmer climate would benefit his friend's health.

•2."52 LODORK.

" And for worlds,'1 he said, " I would not lose
Derham. It is the joy of my life to think that
by my return to my native country I secure to
myself the society of this excellent and op-
pressed man."

At six o'clock Lodore and Ethel repaired to
Mrs. Greville's bouse. It had been intended
that no other persons should be invited, but the
unexpected arrival of some friends from Wash-
ington, about to sail to England, had obliged
the lady to alter this arrangement. The new
guests consisted of an English gentleman and his
wife, and one other, an American, who had filled
a diplomatic situation in London. Annoyed
by the sight of strangers, Lodore kept apart,
conversing with Ethel and Fanny.

At dinner he sat opposite to the American.
There was something in this man's physiog-
nomy peculiarly disagreeable to him. He was
not a pleasing-looking man, but that was not
all. Lodore fancied that he must have seen him
before under very painful circumstances. He

LODORK. 253

felt inclined to quarrel with him — he knew not
why; and was disturbed and dissatisfied with
himself and every body. The first words which
the man spoke were as an electric shock to him.
Twelve long years rolled back — the past became
the present once again. This very American
had sat opposite to him at the memorable din-
ner at the Russian Ambassador's. At the mo-
ment when he had been hurried away by the
fury of his passion against Casimir, he re-
membered to have seen a sarcastic sneer on
his face, as the republican marked the arro-
gance of the English noble. Lodore had been
ready then to turn the fire of his resentment on
the insolent observer; but when the occasion
passed away he had entirely forgotten him, till
now lie rose like a ghost to remind him of for-
mer pains and crimes.

The lapse of years had scarcely altered this
person. His hair was grizzled, but it crowned
his head in the same rough abundance as for-
merly. 1 1 is face, which looked as if carved out

254 LODORE.

of wood, strongly and deeply lined, showed no
tokens of a more advanced age. He was then
elderly-looking for a middle-aged man ; he was
now young-looking for an elderly man. Nature
had disdained to change an aspect which
showed so little of her divinity, and which no
wrinkles nor withering could mar. Lodore,
turning from this apparition, caught the reflec-
tion of himself in an opposite mirror. Associa-
tion of ideas had made him unconsciously ex-
pect to behold the jealous husband of Cornelia.
How changed, how passion-worn and tarnished
was the countenance that met his eyes. He
recovered his self-possession as he became per-
suaded that this chance visitant, who had seen
him but once, would be totally unable to recog-
nize him.

This unwelcome guest had been attached to
the American embassy in England, and had
but lately returned to New York. He was full
of dislike of the English. Contempt for them,
and pride in his countrymen, being the cherished

LODORE. 255

feelings of his mind ; the latter he held up to
admiration from prejudiced views ; a natural
propensity to envy and depreciation led him to
detract from the former. He was, in short, a
most disagreeable person ; and his insulting ob-
servations on his country moved Lodore's spleen,
while his mind was shaken from its balance by
the sight of one who reminded him of his past
errors and ruin. He was fast advancing to a
state of irritability, when he should lose all
command over himself. He felt this, and tried
to subdue the impetuous rush of bittern
which agitated him ; he remembered that he
must expect many trials like this, and that,
rightly considered, this was a good school
wherein he might tutor himself to self-pos-
session and firmness. He went to another ex-
treme, and addressing himself to, and arguing
with, the object of his dislike, endeavoured to
"•loss over to himself the rising violence of his
impassioned temper.

The ladies retired, and the gentlemen entered

2o6 LODORE.

upon a political discussion on some event pass-
ing in Europe. The English guest took his
departure early, and Lodore and the other con-
tinued to converse. Some mention was made
of newspapers newly arrived, and the American
proposed that they should repair to the coffee-
house to see them. Lodore agreed : he thought
that this would be a good opportunity to shake
off his distasteful companion.

The coffee-room contained nearly twenty per-
sons. They were in loud discussion upon a
question of European politico, and reviling
England and her manners in the most contemp-
tuous terms. This was not balm for Lodore's
sore feelings. His heart swelled indignantly at
the sarcasms which these strangers levelled
against his native country ; he felt as if he was
acting a coward's part while he listened tamely.
His companion soon entered with vehemence
into the conversation ; and the noble, who was
longing to quarrel with him, now drew himself
up with forced composure, fixing his full mean-

LODORE. 257

ing eyes upon the speaker, hoping by his quies-
cence to entiee him into expressions which he
would insist on being retracted. His temper
by this time entirely mastered him. In a calmer
moment he would have despised himself for
being influenced by such a man, to any senti-
ment except contempt; but the tempest was
abroad, and all sobriety of feeling was swept
away like chaff before the wind.

Mr. Hatfield, — such was the American's
name, — perceiving that he was listened to, en-
tered with great delight on his favourite topic,
a furious and insolent philippic against England,
in mass and in detail. Lodore still listened ;
there was a dry sneer in the tones of the
speaker's voice, that thrilled him with hate
and rage. At length, by some chance revert-
ing to the successful struogle America had
made for her independence, and ridiculing the
resistance of the English on the occasion, Hat-
field named Lodore.

"Lodore!" cried one of the by-standers;

'258 LODORE.

" Fitzhenry was the name of the man who took
the Oronooko.'1

" Aye, Fitzhenry it was," said Hatfield,
" Lodore is liis nickname. King George's bit
of gilt gingerbread, which mightily pleased the
sapient mariner. An Englishman thinks him-
self honoured when he changes one name for
another. Admiral Fitzhenry was the scum of
the earth — Lord Lodore a pillar of state. Pity
that infamy should so soon have blackened the
glorious title !"

Lodore's pale check suddenly flushed at these
words, and then blanched again, as with com-
pressed lips he resolved to bear vet more, till
the insult should no longer be equivocal. The
word " infamy" was echoed from various lips.
Hatfield found that lie had insured a hearing,
and, glad of an audience, he went on to relate
his story — it was of the dinner at the Russian
Ambassador's — of the intemperate violence of
Lodore — and the youthful Lyzinski's wrongs.
" I saw the blow given," continued the narra-

LODORE. 259

tor, " and I would have caned the fellow on
the spot, had I not thought that a bullet would
do his business better. But when it came to
that, London was regaled by an event which
could not have happened here, for we have no
such cowards among us. My lord w;is not to
be found — he had absconded — sneaked off like
a mean-spirited, pitiful scoundrel V

The words were still on the man's lips when
a blow, sudden and unexpected, extended him
on the floor. After this swiftly-executed act of
retaliation, Lodore folded his arms, and as his
antagonist rose, foaming with rage, said, "You,
at least, shall have no cause to complain of not
receiving satisfaction for your injuries at my
hands. I am ready to give it, even in this
room. I am Lord Lodore !"

Duels, that sad relic of feudal barbarism,
were more frequent then than now in America ;
at all times they are more fatal and more openly
carried on there than in this country. The na-
ture of the quarrel in the present instance ad-

'260 LODORE.

mitted of no delay ; and it was resolved, that
the antagonists should immediately repair to an
open place near the city, to terminate, by the
death of one, the insults they had mutually
inflicted.

Lodore saw himself surrounded by Ameri-
cans, all strangers to him ; nor was he acquainted
with one person in New York whom he could
ask to be his second. This was matter of slight
import : the idea of vindicating his reputation,
and of avenging the bitter mortifications received
from society, filled him with unnatural glad-
ness; and he was hastening to the meeting,
totally regardless of any arrangement for his
security.

There was a gentleman, seated at a distant
part of the coffee-room, who had been occupied
by reading ; nor seemed at all to give ear to what
was going on, till the name of Lodore occurred :
lie then rose, and when the blow was given,
drew nearer the group ; though he still stood
aloof, while, with raised and angry voices, they

LODORE. C2G1

assailed Lodore, and lie, replying in his deep,
subdued voice, agreed to the meeting which
they tmnultuously demanded. Now, as they
were hastening away, and Lodore was following
them, confessedly unbefriended, this gentleman
approached, and putting his card into the no-
bleman's hand, said, " I am an Englishman,
and should be very glad if you would accept
my services on this painful occasion/"'

Lodore looked at the card, on which was
simply engraved the name of " Mr. Edward
Villiers," and then at him who addressed him.
lie was a young man — certainly not more than
three-and-twenty. An air of London fashion,
to which Lodore had been so long unused,
was combined with a most prepossessing coun-
tenance. He was light-haired and blue-eyed ;
ingenuousness and sincerity marked his physi-
ognomy. The few words he had spoken were
enforced by a graceful cordiality of manner,
and a silver-toned voice, that won the heart.
Lodore was struck by his prepossessing exterior,

262 LODORK.

and replied with warm thanks; adding, that
his services would be most acceptable on certain
conditions, — which were merely that he should
put no obstacle to the immediate termination of
the quarrel, in any mode, however desperate,
which his adversary might propose. " Other-
wise/1 Lodore added, " I must entirely decline
your interference. All this is to me matter of
far higher import than mere life and death, and
I can submit to no controul."

" Then my services must be limited to se-
curing fair play for you," said Mr. Villiers.

During this brief parley, they were in the
street, proceeding towards the place of meeting.
Day had declined, and the crescent moon was
high in the heavens : each instant its beams
grew more refulgent, as twilight yielded to night.

" We shall have no difficulty in seeing each
other," said Lodore, in a cheerful voice. He
felt cheerful : a burthen was lifted from his
heart. How much must a brave man suffer
under the accusation of cowardice, and how

LODORE. 2(i3

joyous when an opportunity is granted of prov-
ing his courage ! Lodore was brave to rashness
at this crisis he felt as if about to be born again
to all the earthly blessings of which he had been
deprived so long. He did not think of the
dread baptism of blood which was to occasion
his regeneration — still less of personal danger ;
he thought only of good name restored — of hi.^
reputation for courage vindicated — of the inso-
lence of this ill-spoken fellow signally chastised.

" Have you weapons?" asked his companion.

" They will procure pistols, I suppose," re-
plied Lodore : '; we should lose much time by
going to the hotel for mine."

"We are passing that where I am," said Mr.
Villiers. "If you will wait one moment I will
fetch mine; — or will you go up with me PM

They entered the house, and the apartments
of Mr. Vrilliers. At such moments slight causes
operate changes on the human heart ; and as
various impulses sweep like winds over its
chords, that subtle instrument gives forth va-

204 LODORE.

rious tones. A moment ago, Lodore seemed to
raise bis proud head to the stars : he felt as if
escaping from a dim, intricate cavern, into the
blessed light of day. The strong excitement
permitted no second thought — no second image.
With a lighter step than Mr. Villiers, he fol-
lowed that gentleman up-stairs. For a moment,
as he went into an inner apartment for the pis-
tols, Lodore was alone : a desk was open on the
table; and paper, unwritten on, upon the desk.
Scarcely knowing what he did, Lodore took the
pen, and wrote — "Ethel, my child! my life's
dearest blessing ! be virtuous, be useful, be
happy ! — farewell, for ever r — and under this
he wrote Mrs. Greville's address. The first
words were written with a firm hand; but the
recollection of all that might occur, made his
fingers tremble as he continued, and the di-
rection was nearly illegible. "If any thing
happens to me," said he to Mr. Villiers, " you
will add to your kindness immeasurably by
going there," — pointing to the address, — "and

LODORE. 26*5

taking precaution that mv daughter may hear
of her disaster in as tender a manner as pos-
sible."

"Is there any thing else?11 asked his com-
panion. " Command me freely, I beseech you ;
I will obey your injunctions to the letter."

" It is too late now," replied the noble ; " and
we must not keep these gentlemen waiting. The
little I have to say we will talk of as we walk.*'

" I feel," continued Lodore, after they were
again in the street, " that if this meeting end
fatally, I have no power to enforce my wishes
and designs beyond the grave. The providence
which has so strangely cjnducted the drama
of my life, will proceed in its own way after
the final catastrophe. I commit my daughter to
a higher power than mine, secure that so much
innocence and goodness must receive bless-
ings, even in this ill-grained state of existence.
You will see Mrs. Greville : she is a kind-
hearted, humane woman, and will exert herself
to console my child. Ethel— Miss Fitzhenry, I
vol. i. N

266 LODORE.

mean — must, as soon as is practicable, return to
England. She will be received there by my
sister, and remain with her till — till her fate be
otherwise decided. We were on the point of
sailing; — I have fitted up a cabin for her; —
she might make the voyage in that very vessel.
You, perhaps, will consult — though what claim
have I on you ?"

" A claim most paramount," interrupted Vil-
liers eagerly, — " that of a countryman in a
foreign land — of a gentleman vindicating; his
honour at the probable expense of life.11

" Thank vou !" replied Lodore ; — " my heart
thanks vou — for my own sake, and for my
daughter's — if indeed you will kindly render her
such services as her sudden loss may make
sadly necessary.',

" Depend upon me; — though God grant she
need them not !"

" For her sake, I say Amen !" said Lodore ;
" for my own — life is a worn-out garment — few
tears will be shed upon my grave, except by
Ethel."

LODORE. 2G7

M There is yet another," said Villiers with
visible hesitation : " pardon me, if I appear
impertinent ; but at such a moment, may I not
name Lady Lodore ?"

" For her, indeed," answered the peer, " the
event of this evening, if fatal to me, will prove
fortunate : she will be delivered from a heavy
chain. May she be happy in another choice !
Are you acquainted with her ?"

" I am, slightly — that is, not very intimately ."

" If you meet her on your return to England,1'
continued the noble; — "if you ever see Lady
Lodore, tell her that I invoked a blessing on
her with my latest breatli — that I forgive her,
and ask her forgiveness. But we are arrived.
Remember Ethel "

"Yet one moment," cried Villiers ;— "one
moment of reflection, of calm ! Is there no way
of preventing this encounter ?"

" None ! — fail me not, I intreat you, in this
one thing; — interpose no obstacle— be as eager
and as firm as I myself am. Our friends have

x 2

268 LODORE.

chosen a rising ground : we shall be excellent
marks for one another. Pray do not lose time."
The American and his second stood in dark
relief against the moon-lit sky. As the rays fell
upon the English noble, Hatfield observed to
his companion, that he now perfectly recognized
him, and wondered at his previous blindness.
Perhaps he felt some compunction for the insult
he had offered ; but he said nothing, and no
attempt was made on either side at amicable ex-
planation. They proceeded at once, with a kind
of savage indifference, to execute the murderous
designs which caused them to disturb the still
and lovelv night.

It was indeed a night, that love, and hope,
and all the softer emotions of the soul, would
have felt congenial to them. A balmy, western
breeze lifted the hair lightly from Lodore's
brow, and played upon his cheek ; the trees
were bathed in yellow moonshine ; a glowworm
stealing along the grass scarce showed its light ;
and sweet odours were wafted from grove and

LODORE. 269

field. Lodore stood, with folded arms, gazing
upon the scene in silence, while the seconds were
arranging preliminaries, and loading the fire-
arms. None can tell what thoughts then passed
through his mind. Did he rejoice in his ho-
nour redeemed, or grieve for the human being
at whose breast he was about to aim?— or were
his last thoughts spent upon the account he
might so speedily be called on to render before
his Creator's throne? When at last he took
his weapon from the hand of Villiers, his coun-
tenance was serene, though solemn ; ami his
voice firm and calm. "Remember me to Ethel,1
lie said ; " and tell her to thank you ; — I cannot
sufficiently ; yet I do so from my heart. If I
live — then more of tin's.'1

The antagonists were placed : they were both
perfectly self-possessed — bent, with hardness
and cruelty of purpose, on fulfilling the tragic-
act. As they stood face to face — a few brief

paces only intervening — on the moon-lit hill —
neither had ever been more alive, more full of

270 LODORE.

conscious power, of moral and physical energy,
than at that moment. Villiers saw them stand-
in«- beneath the silver moonbeams, each in the
pride of life, of strength, of resolution. A ray
glanced from the barrel of Lodore^s pistol, as
he raised and held it out with a steady hand — a
flash — the reports — and then he staggered two
steps, fell, and lay on the earth, making no sign
of life. Villiers rushed to him : the wound was
unapparent — no blood flowed, but the bullet
had entered his heart. His friend raised his
head in his arms ; his eyes opened ; his lips
moved, but no sound issued from them ; — a
shadow crossed his face — the body slipped from
Yilliers's support to the ground — all was over —
Lodore was dead !

LODORE. 271

CHAPTER XVI.

En cor gentil, amor per mort no passa.

Ausias March, Troubadour.

We return to Longfield and to Mrs. Elizabeth
Fitzhenry. The glory of summer invested the
world with light, cheerfulness, and beauty,
when the sorrowing sister of Lodore visited
London, to receive her orphan niece from the
hands of the friend of Mrs. Greville, under
whose protection she had made the voyage.
The good lady folded poor Ethel in her arms,
overcome by the likeness she saw to her beloved
brother Henry, in his youthful days, before
passion had worn and misfortune saddened him.
Her soft, brown, lamp-like eyes, beamed with

272 LODORE.

the same sensibility. Yet when she examined
her more closely, Mrs Elizabeth lost somewhat
of the likeness ; for the lower part of her face
resembled her mother : her hair was lighter and
her complexion much fairer than Lodore; be-
sides that the expression of her countenance
was peculiar to herself, and possessed that indi-
viduality which is so sweet to behold, but im-
possible to describe.

They lingered but a few days in London.
Fanny Derham, who accompanied her on her
voyage, had already returned to her father, and
there was nothing to detain them from Lonjr-
field. Ethel had no adieus to make that touched
her heart. Her aunt was more to her than any
other living being, and her strongest desire now
was, to visit the scenes once hallowed by her
father's presence. The future was a chaos of
dark regret and loneliness ; her whole life, she
thought, would be composed of one long me-
mory.

One memory, and one fatal image. Ethel had

LODORE. 27'i

not only consecrated her heart to her father, but
his society was a habit with her, and, until now,
she had never even thought how she could en-
dure existence without the supporting influence
of his affection. His conversation, so full of a
kind penetration into her thoughts, was calculat-
ed to develop and adorn them ; his manly sense
and paternal solicitude, had all fostered a filial
love, the most tender and strong. Add to this,
his sudden and awful death. Already had they
schemed their future life in a world new to
Ethel : he had excited her enthusiasm by de-
scriptions of the wonders of art in the old coun-
tries, and raised her curiosity while promis-
ing to satisfy it ; and she had eagerly looked
forward to the time when she should see the
magical works of man, and mingle with a sys-
tem of society, of which, except by books, he
alone presented any ensample to her. Their
voyage was fixed, and on the other side of their
watery way she had figured a very Elysium of
wonders and pleasures. The late change in their

n5

274 LODORE.

mode of life had served to endear him doubly
to her. It had been the occupation of her life
to think of her father, to communicate all her
thoughts to him, and in the unreflecting confi-
dence of youth, she had looked forward to no
termination of a state of existence, that had
began from her cradle. He propped her entire
world ; the foundations must moulder and
crumble away without him — and he was gone
— where then was she ?

Mr. Villiers had, as soon as he was able,
hurried to Mrs. Greville's house. By some
strange chance, the fatal tidings had preceded
him, and lie found the daughter of the unfor-
tunate Lodore bewildered and maddened by her
frightful calamity. Her first desire was to sec
all that was left of her parent — she could not
believe that he was indeed dead — she was cer-
tain that care and skill might revive him— she
insisted on being led to his side ; her friends
strove to restrain her, but she rushed into the
street, she knew not whither, to ask for, to find

LODORE.

her father. The timidity of her temper was
overborne by the wild expeetation of yet being
able to recall him from among the dead. Yil-
liers followed her, and, yielding to her wish.
guided her towards the hotel whither the remains
of Lodore had been carried. He judged that
the exertion of walking: thither, and the time
that must elapse before she arrived, would calm
and subdue her. He talked to her of her
father as they went along — he endeavoured to
awaken the source of tears — but she was silent —
absorbed — brooding darkly on her hopes. Pity
for herself had not yet arisen, nor the frightful
certainty of bereavement. To see those dear
lineaments — to touch his hand the very hand
that had so often caressed her, clay-cold and
incapable of motion ! Could it be !

She did not answer Villiers, she onlv hurried
forward ; she feared obstruction to her wishes ;
her soul was set on one thought only. Had Vil-
liers endeavoured to deceive her, it would havt
been in vain. Arrived at the hotel, as by in-

276 LODORE.

stinet, she sprung up the stairs, and reached the
door of the room. It was darkened, in useless
but decent respect for the death within; there lay
a figure covered by a sheet, and already chilling
the atmosphere around it. The imagination is
slow to act upon the feelings in comparison
with the quick operation of the senses. Ethel
now knew that her father was dead. Mortal
strength could support no more— the energy of
hope deserting her, she sunk lifeless on the
ground.

For a long time she was passive in the hands
of others. A violent illness confined her to her
bed, and physical suffering subdued the excess
of mental agony. Villiers left her among kind
friends. It was resolved that she and Fanny
Derham should proceed to England, under the
protection of the friends of Mrs. Greville about
to return thither ; he was himself obliged to
return to England without delay.

Ethel's destiny was as yet quite uncertain.
It was decided by the opening of her father's

LODORK. 277

will. This had been made twelve years before
on his first arrival at New York, and breathed
the spirit of resentment, and even revenge, against
his wife. Lodore had indeed not much wealth
to leavqp His income chiefly consisted in a
grant from the crown, entailed on heirs male,
which in default of these, reverted back, and in
a sinecure which expired with him. I lis paternal
estate at Lono-field, and a sum under twenty
thousand pounds, the savings of twelve years,
formed all his possessions. The income arising
from the former was absorbed by Lady Lodore ">
jointure of a thousand a year, and five hundred
a year settled on his sister, together with permis-
sion to occupy the family mansion during her life.
The remaining sum was disposed of in a way
most singular. Without referring to the amount
of what he could leave, he bequeathed the addi-
tional sum of six hundred a year to Ladv Lo-
dore, on the express condition, that she should
not interfere with, nor even see, her child ; upon
her failing in this condition, this sum was to be
left to accumulate till Ethel was of age. Ethel

278 LODORE.

was ultimately to inherit every thing ; but
while her mother and aunt lived, her fortune
consisted of little more than five thousand
pounds ; and even in this, she was limited to
the use of the interest only until sh^ was of
age; a previous marriage would have no influ-
ence on the disposition of her property. Mrs.
Elizabeth was left her guardian.

This will was in absolute contradiction to the
wishes and feelings in which Lord Lodoredied;
so true had his prognostic been, that he had no
power beyond the • He had probably

forgotten the existence of this will, or imagined
that it had been destroyed : he had determined
to make a new one on his arrival in England.
Meanwhile it was safelj deposited with his soli-
citor in London, and Mrs. Elizabeth, with mis-
taken zeal, hastened to put it into force, an
showed herself eager to obey her brother's wishes
with scrupulous exactitude. The contents of it
were communicated to Lady Lodore. She
made no comment — returned no answer. She
was suddenly reduced from comparative afHu-

LODORE. 279

ence (for her husband's allowance had consisted
of several thousands) to a bare sixteen hundred
a vear. "Whether she would be willing to
diminish this her scanty income one third,
and take on herself, besides, the care of her
daughter, was not known. She remained inac-
tive and silent, and Ethel was placed at once
under the guardianship of her aunt.

These two ladies left London in the old
lumbering chariot which had belonged to the
Admiral. Now, indeed, Ethel found herself in
a new country, with new friends around her,
speaking a new language, and each change of
scene made more manifest the complete revolu-
tion of her fortunes. She looked on all with
languid eyes, and a heart dead to every plea-
sure. Her aunt, who bore a slight resemblance
of her father, won some degree of interest ; and
the sole consolation offered her, was to trace a
similarity of voice and feature, and thus to
bring the lost Lodore more vividly before her.
The journey to Longfield was therefore not

280 LODORE.

wholly without a melancholy charm. Mrs.
Elizabeth longed to obtain more minute infor-
mation concerning her brother, her pride and
her delight, than had been contained in his
short and infrequent letters. She hazarded a
few questions. Grief loves to feed upon itself,
and to surround itself with multiplications of its
own image ; like a bee, it will find sweets in the
poison flower, and nestle within its own creations,
although they pierce the heart that cherishes
them. Ethel felt a fascination in dwelling for
ever on the past She asked for nothing better
than to live her life over again, while narrating
its simple details, and to bring her father back
from his grave to dwell with her, by discours-
ing perpetually concerning him. She was un-
wearied in her descriptions, her anecdotes, her
praises. The Illinois rose before the eyes of
her aunt, like a taintless paradise, inhabited by
an angel. Love and good dwelt together there
in blameless union ; the sky was brighter, the
earth fairer, fresher, younger, more magnificent,

LODORK. 281

and more wonderful, than in the old world.
The good lady called to mind, with surprise,
the melancholy and despairing letters she had re-
ceived from her brother, while inhabiting thi>
Eden. It was matter of mortification to his
mourning daughter to hear, as from himself,
as it were, that any sorrows had visited his
heart while with her. When we love one to
whom we have devoted our lives with undivided
affection, the idea that the beloved object suf-
fered any grief while with us, jars with our
sacred sorrow. We delight to make the dift'e-
rence between the possession of their society,
and our subsequent bereavement, entire in its
contrasted happiness and misery ; we wish to
have engrossed their whole souls, as they do
ours, at the period of regret, and it is like the
most cruel theft, to know that we have been de-
prived of any of the power we believed that we
possessed, to influence their entire being. But
then again, forgetting her aunt's interruption.-,
Ethel returned to the story of their occupation-.

282 LODORE.

their amusements, their fond and unsullied in-
tercourse, her eyes streamed with tears as she
spoke, while yet her heart felt relief in the
indulgence of her woe.

When the ladies returned to Longfield, it be-
came Mrs. Elizabeth's turn to narrate. She
had lived many years feeding silently on the
memory of by-gone time. During her brother's
exile, she had seldom spoken his name, for she
felt little inclined to satisfy the inquisitiveness
of the good people of Longfield. But now her
long-stored anecdotes, her sacred relics, the
spots made dear by his presence, all were a trea-
sure poured out bounteously before Ethel. No-
thing appeared so natural to the unfortunate
girl as that another should, like herself, wor-
ship the recollection of her adored father. To
love him while he lived, to see nothing in the
world that had lost him, except his shadow cast
upon its benighted state, appeared the only ex-
istence that could follow his extinction. Some
people, when they die, leave but a foot of ground

LODORE. 283

vacant, which the eager pressing ranks of their
fellow-creatures fill up immediately) walking on
their grave, as on common earth ; others leave
a gap, a chasm, a fathomless gulf, beside
which the survivor sits for ever hopeless.
Both Ethel and her aunt, in their several
ways, in youth and age, were similarly situated.
Both were cut off from the great family of their
species ; wedded to one single being, and he
was gone. Both made the dead Lodore the
focus to concentrate, and the mirror to reflect,
all their sensations and experience. He visited
their dreams by night, his name was their study,
their pastime, their sole untiring society.

Mrs. Elizabeth, the gentlest visionary that
had ever outlived hope, without arriving at its
fruition, having readied those years when me-
mory is the natural food of the human mind,
found this fare exceedingly well adapted to her
constitution. She had pined a little while cut
off from all heart-felt communication with her
fellow-creatures, but the presence of Ethel ful-

284 LODORE.

rilled her sours desire ; she found sympathy, and
an auditress, into whose ever-attentive ear she
could pour those reveries which she had so
long nourished in secret. Whoso had heard
the good lady talk of endless tears and mourn-
ing for the loss of Lodore, of life not worth
having when he was gone, of the sad desolation
of their position, and looked at her face, beam-
ing with satisfaction, with only so much sensi-
bility painted there as to render it expressive
of all that is kind and compassionate, good-
humour in her frequent smile, and sleek content
in her plump person, might have laughed at
the contrast; and yet have pondered on the
strange riddle we human beings present, and
how contradictions accord in our singular ma-
chinery. This good aunt was incapable of af-
fectation, and all was true and real that she
said. She lived upon the idea of her brother;
he was all in all to her, but they had been
divided so long, that his death scarcely increased
the separation ; and she could talk of meeting

LODORE. 285

him in heaven, with as firm and cheerful a faith,
as a few months before she had anticipated his

return to England. Though sincere in her iv-
gret for his death, habit had turned lamenta-
tion into a healthy nutriment, so that she throve
upon the tears she shed, and grew fat and cheer-
ful upon her sighs. She would lead the agonized
girl to the vault which contained the remains of
her brother, and hover near it, as a Catholic be-
side the shrine of a favourite saint — the visible
image giving substance and form to her reverie ;
for hitherto, her dreamy life had wanted the
touch of reality, which the presence of her
niece, and the sad memorial of her lost brother,
afforded.

The home-felt sensations of the mourning1
orphan, were in entire contrast to this holiday
woe. While her aunt brooded over her sor-
row " to keep it warm," it wrapped Ethel's
soul as with a fiery torture. Every cheerful
thought lay buried with her father, and the
tears she shed near his grave were accompanied

286 LODORE.

by a wrenching of her being, and a consequent
exhaustion, that destroyed the elasticity of the

spirit of youth. The memory of Lodore, which
soothed his sister, haunted his child like a
sad beckoning, yet fatal vision ; she yearned
to reach the shore where his pale ghost per-
petually wandered — the earth seemed a dark
prison, and liberty and light dwelt with the
dead beyond the grave. Eternally conversant
with the image of death, she was brought into
too near communion with the grim enemy of
life. She wasted and grew pale: nor did any
voice speak to her of the unreasonableness of
her grief; her father was not near to teach
her fortitude, and there appeared a virtue and
a filial piety in the excess of her regret, which
blinded her aunt to the fatal consequences of its
indulgence.

"While summer lasted, and the late autumn
protracted its serenity almost into winter, Ethel
wandered in the lanes and fields ; and in spite of
wasting" grief, the free air of heaven, which

LODORE. 287

swept her cheek, preserved its healthy hue and
braced her limbs. But when dreary incli
merit winter arrived, and the dull fireside of
aunt Bessy became the order of the day, with-
out occupation to amuse, or society to dis-
tract her thoughts, given up to grief, and
growing into a monument of woe, it became
evident that the springs of life wire becoming
poisoned, and that health and existence itself
were giving way before the destructive influ-
ences at work within. Appetite first, then
sleep, deserted her. A slight cold became a
cough, and then changed into a preying fever.
She grew so thin that her large eves, shining
with unnatural lustre, appeared to occupy too
much of her face, and her brow was streaked
with ghastly hues. Poor Mrs. Elizabeth, when
she found that neither arrow-root nor chicken-
broth restored her, grew frightened — the vil-
lage practitioner exhausted his skill without
avail. Ethel herself firmly believed that she
was going to die, and fondly cherished the hope

288 LODORE.

of rejoining her father. She was in love with
death, which alone could reunite her to the
being, apart from whom she believed it impos-
sible to exist.

But limits were now placed to Mrs. Eliza-
beth's romance. The danger of Ethel was a
frightful reality that awoke every natural feel-
ing. Ethel, the representative of her brother,
the last of their nearly extinct race, the sole
relation she possessed, the only creature whom
she could entirely love, was dear to her bevond
expression ; anil the dread of losing her gave
activity to her slothful resolves. Having sel-
dom, during the whole course of her life, been
called upon to put any plan or wish of her's
into actual execution, what another would have
immediately and easily done, was an event to
call forth all her energies, and to require all
her courage ; luckily she possessed sufficient to
meet the present exigency. She wrote up to
London to her single correspondent there, her
brother's solicitor. A house was taken, and the

LODORE. 289

first warm days of spring found the ladies es-
tablished in the metropolis. A physician had
been called in, and lie pronounced the mind
only to be sick. " Amuse her," he said, " oc-
cupy her — prevent her from dwelling on tho
thoughts which have preyed upon her health :
let her see new faces, new places, every thing
new — and youth, and a good constitution, will
do the rest.-11

There seemed so much truth in this advice,
that all dangerous symptoms disappeared from
the moment of Ethel's leaving Essex. Her
strength returned — her face resumed its former
loveliness; and aunt Bessy, overjoyed at the
change, occupied herself earnestly in discover-
ing amusements for her niece in the numerous,
wide-spread, and very busy congregation of
human beings, which forms the western portion
of London.

vol. I.

290 LODORE.

(HATTER XVII.

You are now
In London, that great sea, whose ebb and How.

At once is deaf and loud.

Shelley.

Thebe is no uninhabited desart so dreary as
the peopled streets of London, to those who
have no ties with its inhabitants, nor any pur-
suits in common with its busy crowds. A drop
of water in the ocean is no symbol of the situ-
ation of an isolated individual thrown upon the
stream of metropolitan life ; that amalgamates
with its kindred clement; but the solitary being
finds no pole of attraction to cause a union
with its fellows, and bastilled by the laws of
society, it is condemned to incommunicative
solitude.

lodori:. 291

Ethel was thrown completely upon her aunt.
and her aunt was a cypher in the world. She
had not a single acquaintance in London, and
was wholly inexperienced in its ways. She
dragged Ethel about to see sights, and Ethel
was amused for a time. The playhouses were
a great source of entertainment to her, and all
kinds of exhibitions, panoramas, and shows,
served to fill up her day. Still the great want
of all shed an air of dulness over every thing
— the absence of human intercourse, and of the
conversation and sympathy of her species. Ethel,
as she drove through the mazy streets, and min-
gled with the equipages in the park, could not
help thinking what pleasant people might be
found among the many she saw, and how
strange it was that her aunt did not speak even
to one among them. This solitude, joined to a
sense of exclusion, became very painful. Again
and again she sighed for the Illinois ; that was
inhabited by human beings, humble and uncul-
tivated as they might be. She knew their wants,

292 LODORE.

and could interest herself in their goings on.
All the moving crowd of men and women now
around her seemed so many automata : she
started when she heard them address each other,
and express any feeling or intention that dis-
tinguished them from the shadows of a phan-
tasmagoria.

Where were the boasted delights of European
intercourse which Lodore had vaunted ? — the
elegancies, and the wit, or the improvement to be
derived from its society ? — the men and women
of talent, of refinement, and taste, who by their
conversation awaken the soul to new powers,
and exhilarate the spirits with a purer madness
than wine — who with alternate gaiety and
wisdom, humour and sagacity, amuse while
they teach ; accompanying their lessons with
that spirit of sympathy, that speaking to the
eye and ear, as well as to the mind, which books
can so poorly imitate? "Here, doubtless, I
should find all these," thought Ethel, as she
surveyed the audience at the theatres, or the

LODORE. 293

daily congregations she met in her drives ; " vet
I live here as if not only I inhabited a land
whose language was unknown to me, for then I
might converse by signs, — but as if I had fallen
among beings of another species, with whom I
have no affinity : I should almost say that I
walked among them invisible, did they not con-
descend sometimes to gaze at me, proving that
at least I am seen."

Time sped on very quickly, meanwhile, in
spite of these repinings; for her days were past
in the utmost monotony, — so that though the
hours a little lagged, yet she wondered where
they were when they were gone: and they had
spent more than a month in town, though it
seemed but a few days. Ethel had entirely re-
covered her health, and more than her former
beauty. She was nearly seventeen : she was rather
tall and slim ; but there was a bending elegance
in her form, joined to an elastic step, which was
singularly graceful. No man could see her
without a wish to draw near to afford protection
and support ; and the soft expression of her

o 3

294 LODORE.

full eyes added to the charm. Her deep mourn-
ing dress, the simplicity of her appearance, her
face so prettily shaded by her bright ringlets,
often caused her to be remarked, and people
asked one another who she was. None knew ;
and the old-fashioned appearance of Mrs. Eliza-
beth Fitzhenrv, and the want of style which
characterized all her arrangements, prevented
our very aristocratic gentry from paying as
much attention to her as they otherwise would.
One day, this gentle, solitary pair attended a
morning concert. Ethel had not been to the
Opera, and now heard Pasta for the first time.
Her father had cultivated her taste for Italian
music ; for without cultivation — without in some
degree understanding and being familiar with
an art, it is rare that we admire even the most
perfect specimens of it. Ethel listened with
wrapt attention ; her heart beat quick, and her
eyes became suffused with tears which she could
not suppress ; — so she leant forward, shading
her face as much as she could with her veil,
and trying to forget the throng of strangers

LODORF.. 295

about her. They were in the pit ; and having
come in late, sat at the end of one of the forms.
Pasta's air was concluded ; and she still turned
aside, being too much agitated to wish to speak,
when she heard her aunt addressing some one
as an old acquaintance. She called her friend
"Captain Markham," expressed infinite pleasure
at seeing him, and whispered her niece that here
was an old friend of her father's. Ethel turned
and beheld Mr. Villiers. I lis face lighted up
with pleasure, and he expressed his joy at the
chance which had prod need the meeting; but
the poor girl was unable to reply. All colour
deserted her cheeks ; marble pale and cold,
her voice failed, and her heart seemed to die
within her. The room where last she saw the
lifeless remains of her father rose before her ;
and the appearance of Mr. Villiers was as s
vision from another world, speaking of the dead.
Mrs. Elizabeth, considerably surprised, asked
her how she came to know Captain Markham.
Ethel would have said, "Let usgoT but her
voice died away, and she felt that tears would

296 LODORE.

follow any attempt at explanation. Ashamed of
the very possibility of occasioning a scene, and
yet too disturbed to know well what she was
about, she suddenly rose, and though the com-
mencement of a new air was commanding silence
and attention, Bhe hastily quitted the room, and
found herself alone, outside the door, before her
aunt was well aware that she was gone. She
claimed Captain Markham's assistance to follow
the fugitive ; and, attended by him, at length
discovered her chariot, to which Ethel had been
led by the servant, and in which she was sitting,
weeping bitterly, Mrs. Elizabeth felt inclined
to ask her whether she was mad; but she also
was struck dumb; for her Captain Markham
had said — " I am very sorry to have distressed
Miss Fitzhenry. My name is Villiers. I can-
not wonder at her agitation ; but it would give
me much pleasure if she would permit me to
call on her, when she can see me with more
composure."

With these words, he assisted the good lady
into the carriage, bowed, and disappeared. He

L0D01U.. 297

was not Captain Markham ! How could she
have been so stupid as to imagine that he was ?
He looked, upon the whole, rather younger
than Captain Markham had done, when she
formed acquaintance with him, during her ex-
pedition to London on the occasion of Ethel's
christening. He was taller, too, and not quite
so stout; yet he was so like — the same frank,
open countenance, the same ingenuous manner,
and the same clear blue eyes. Certainly Cap-
tain Markham was not so handsome ; — and
what a fool Mr. Villiers must think her, for
having mistaken him for a person who resembled
him sixteen years ago ; quite forgetting that
Mr. Villiers was ignorant who her former
friend was, and when she had seen him. All
these perplexing thoughts passed through Mrs.
FitzheniVs brain, tinging her aged cheek with
a blush of shame ; while Ethel, having recovered
herself, was shocked to remember how foolishlv
and rudely she had behaved ; and longed to
apologize, yet knew not how ; and fancied that
it was very unlikely that she should ever see

-}98 LODORE.

Mr. Villiers again. Her aunt, engaged by her
own distress, quite forgot the intention he had
expressed of calling, and could only exclaim
and lament over her foil v. The rest of the day
was spent with great discomfort to both ; for
the sight of Mr. Villiers renewed all Ethel's
sorrows ; and again and again she bestowed the
tribute of showers of tears to her dear father's
memory.

The following day, much to Ethel's delight,
and the annoyance of Mrs. Elizabeth, who
could not get over her sense of shame, Mr.
Villiers presented himself in their drawing-
room. Villiers, however, was a man speedily to
overcome even any prejudice formed against
him ; far more easily, therefore, could he obviate
the good aunt's confusion, and put her at her
ease. His was one of those sunny countenances
that spoke a heart ready to give itself away in
kindness ; — a cheering voice, whose tones echoed
the frankness and cordiality of his nature.
Blest with a buoyant, and even careless spirit,
as far as regarded himself, he had a softness, a

LODORE. 299

delicacy, and a gentleness, with respect to others,
which animated his manners with irresistible
fascination. His heart was open to pity— his
soid the noblest and clearest ever fashioned by
nature in her happiest mood. He had been
educated in the world — he lived for the world,
for he had not genius to raise himself above the
habits and pursuits of his countrymen : vet he
took only the better part of their practices ;
and shed a grace over them, so alien to their
essence, that anyone might have been deceived,
and have fancied that he proceeded on a system
and principles of his own.

He had travelled a good deal, and was some-
what inclined, when pleased with his company,
to narrate his adventures and experiences. Ethel
was naturally rather taciturn ; and Mrs. Eliza-
beth was too much absorbed in the pleasure of
listening, to interrupt their visitor. He felt him-
self peculiarly happy and satisfied between the
two, and his visit was excessively long; nor did he
go away before he had appointed to call th<
next day, and opened a long vista of future

300 LODORE.

visits for himself, assisted by the catalogue of
all that the ladies had not seen, and all that they
desired to see, in London.

\ illiers had been animated while with them,
but lie left the house full of thought. The
name of Fitzhenry, or rather that of Lodore,
was familiar to him ; and the strange chance
that had caused him to act as second to the
lamented noble who bore this title, and which
brought him in contact with his orphan and
solitary daughter, appeared to him like the en-
chantment of fairy land. From the presence
of Ethel, he proceeded to Lady Lodore'a house,
which waa still shut up; yet he knocked, and
inquired of the servant whether she had re-
turned to England. She was still at Baden, he
was told, and not expected for a month or two ;
and this answer involved him in deeper though'
than before.

END OF VOL. I.

LONDON:

I ROT SON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.

0>

GENERAL LIBRARY U.C. BERKELE

BQD073MMMC1

3 ?7 <wf

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY